I slip dark pieces of a shattering vase
behind my eyes
so I only see a wet shade of red.
I have the compulsion to hold my hands over my mouth
when yours is dragging heavy,
like a body.
A field of earth, churned
until it's sick and broken
and eventually becomes just
dirt and smell.
the feeling after reading Fugue, aside from the fact that the title seems perfect for the piece, is darkness without despair, desperation without panic, an honest acceptance of the other side of joy--
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