Rubber ducks and golden drops of moonshine,
iron masks and wooden feelings.

Carrots and cunts, books and cosmic minds,
more books, and a looping endless second.

Beethoven marks my words, Whitman inspires them.
A slow tear runs through the cheek, kindly,
salting the skin, thoroughly drying it’s folds,
quietly, drenching the soul.

And, yet, another tear is shed, another world is dead.
He tries to shout, a scream in gloom woven, a shriek, with sorrow written.

J. G. Manzano

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