My strangest friend bow tied tender
Laced lioness, made of snow
Icicle bride vulnerable and bleeding
A tear for the blue moon for the woman beside her
Wishing to hold her hand
Frozen in sorrowful time
the cuckoo clock sounds from the attic above
like the absurdity of my wretched soul screaming
A little girl plays dress-up in our midst
She is plagued by the desire to be held
And her hand will not stop shaking
Turn your back, and she will be a pile
of cheap lace crying in the embrace of
a shadow
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