Fourteen
Your find yourself
behind slightly open curtains
wearing wings made of wire
and blue-green nylon
The audience waits
The burning bulbs
drip hot color on your skin
If only this stage
could swallow you
If only the epitasis
wasn't swelling in your heart
But the conclusion of dramatics
comes before the story's told
They will all stop and stare
because all the world's a snare
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