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An intense and poignant prose poem by Deeya, in Different Truths.
Pinned against a wall a moth flutters desperately. It isn’t his wall. I can wall up my desperateness well. His inadvertent fall might have been blue or green. Green relieves one’s senses. My senses can build up octaves well. Octave reveals themselves in blue arteries. They carry velvety red plush. I can carry flutters in my womb. My navel carries the carcass of my dreams. The embryonic fluid is disaster itself-dank disastrous waters. Italic dreams sizzle in the golden glue. Two swans mate in the acrylic waters. Its placid green spells carry hunger in them. The hunger of silk and glow-worms. The loony moon nestles in the avid air. It cocoons in the soft mud of the heart raucous with echoes. The wounds turned septic. Nobody cares for a sceptic. I sell my wounds. I trade in boots, raisins, and hiccups. Words choke my throat. I sell my flesh. I trade in death…
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