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Alone, like a stranded morsel of bread,
in a park where pigeons have grown teeth, “you’re marching on a faulty staccato”, she said, “you half-burnt crust with no dough underneath”. And it hurt, you know, on that bench, lonely, with those pigeons ripping my slabs of flesh, feeling the eyes of my fate like a folly; a heart leaking through this life of mesh. At my birth, no fairies; my lot was a fury, with iridescent curves, like those carnivore pigeons, with a sentence of “guilty” from a grand jury, paying the price of a swan’s ambitions. I was raised in a tavern by falling leaves, with lullabies painted in colours of autumn, son and daughter in a coat without sleeves, a fallen Pantheon’s last bastard column.
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