• Vol. 03
  • Chapter 04
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Carved from stone with your head turned
and one lock set free, look to your muse
pulsating at your throat

she will release the swallowed words deep
in your closeted breast.

Run naked through wet grass sister,
taste the siren's scream.

Your father will never rule by fear
devoid of linguistic skills.

A smallholder with false clothing and polished tines
rooted in barren soil, doomed never to turn.