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Holding On To My Shillelagh

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My hands—one holds a quill, the other holds a bouquet of anesthesia with ghost of a whisper, leaving no prints of my epitaph. Spilling whiskey on my words, drowning in ink, listening to the raven caw a guacamole, with no apologies. Slamming the door—the motes in the beams, creaking an old song, echoing the relics of bones harboring memories—waltzing with Matilda, with discarded philosophies of shadows in the drawer, lost. Holding on to my shillelagh. As my words pile up like unwashed dishes staining the alchemy of my soul in hollowed out pages.

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