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Something Synthetic II

Blue blood

Slippery trees and blue blooded moss

A casket of creeers that hold the thick dew in their palms

Bathed in the dim light of the bloodshot moon

How I see this, doesn't matter.

The talons of darkness have engulfed the room

Loose papers tearing away with the wind

Red molten plastic trickling along the moss

A layer of blood on the black buck sleeping soundly

Not a wince, not a twitch

Barely a breath if not steady.

The paper heavy and covered in dew

Falls silently on the transluscent red

That divides the blue into stars

Covers the steady rise and fall

Until everything stops, slowly down

But the ooze from the little pores

Not dead, just not living

Non living like the plastic

And the little doll with the crooked, carved smile.

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