Metamorphosis Under Epsilon Centaurus
rattling in the empty space
from whence my brain is absent
with windowpanes illuminating the interior
sockets in my empty face
scoured by an icy wind's glint.
And when I am clear, I will roam
unhindered by sanity and illusion
disrobed of time's baubly raiments
tunneling gravity's unlikely boundaries
emerging slippery and wet, wriggling,
a worm cast from your smile.
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