Those who lower their necks
All drained of brilliance
and bad music
are the ghosts.
Pulled over by a cop,
a web of habits
aligned with the universe.
All that she owned,
death by an amateur’s hand
dropping shooting stars.
Each day
exposed by your primitive behavior.
Feeling the sway
of flat and dull words
in the here we are now.
Immortalized and burning
like the blood of dreams.
Listen
as my breath escapes
once more.
Relentless in her madness,
sniffing out the sublime
striving ambition on display.
The stone-faced gambit
that can’t be true
to hold the kudos.
Who were visionary angels,
a stone around your neck
alive and empty.
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