marble molt

Askew it itches
drought-stricken illusion
of a drowning rebirth
waiting for
a wrist to wrench.

I've seen the grinding
fingers of time
setting the next molt
on the daily sprain
of twilight.

A cynical
severed hand
wears in the rain
as morbid marble in the shade,

while flowers fade to make fruits
and fruits rot to make earth.

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