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He feels good sometimes,
Stranger sometimes
But always, he feels the spread of a smile
Flimsy across his mouth
Just barely making it from
Cheek to cheek

His sparkling eye
Seeings the summer time

A thousand years ago
Maybe then fog was pure
And he could see things
For how they truly are

He feels alone sometimes,
Stung sometimes.
But always, he knows what it means
To be a crowbar.

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SOFIA RETA New York, New York

"FOR THIS WITCHCRAFT”

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