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My Pen’s Autopsy

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Calling the pendulum of the quill black
in my pen’s autopsy—death by ink,
metaphors and hanging participles.

Staring at stars in a Mason jar
and insanity’s pepper sprout,
my tongue’s a gallows.

So I write until my heart,
is a forgotten alphabet,
fluttering in a birdcage of ribs.

With apostrophes curled like beasts,
waiting for the worms to translate,
even crows have to eat.

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