the blue lake was not where we left it
we got no sleep last night, no one here can dream a fascist radio interview between detonations and bloody debris. never once sleeping, the hungry rose petals live without you, scrape colors off the flying canvas, shout your new story from an ancient mountain, slowly from your wound drips the milky way. looking for myths, the wind blows slowly in the wounded starlight, the last word of your story heard by angels in the morning. — martinez october 2016
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