xxiv. blood sweat tears
lay your head on the pillow,
a crown graces your aura,
grown shaded by a willow
tree, out of the ugly flora
that meets where the houses
meet the forest floor, where
hopes wither, and the louses
sink into the necks and tear
enough that they need until
the next day they can flee
from slapping hands to kill
so that they survive, still free
(to take my blood, my tears.)
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