You twist your ring,
Irregular, undone,
In mimicry singing
A dry distraction.
Quaint burden,
Cracked and limbless
Wanting direction,
From the heat of your stress
Curl, curl and burn.
Next to nothing, castoffs,
Focus the sun
To more than enough.
Except the ash
Of your poor combustion
You’re trash, as flesh is trash:
Lacking diversion
You bide decay
And a certain man,
Wordless, wry,
Raking the season.
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