SQUINT

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About mental breakdown

Even birds look ominous,

and are.

 

The pasty trees disclose

no silence:

rook-voice

dandifies this March.

 

Inside my skull

a hair-line fracture shifts.

 

The mind’s thin powders

function slowly,

doused in tears.

 

You stare incredulously

when the bullet’s wild velocity

has entered you.

 

Your eyes scorch dry,

and slump.

.

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