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August 2018

Roubari
August 16, 2018

The elephants all die.
So do the calculations
and memories.
Sitting in the back seat
when your spit
all dries up
that moment before
first kiss or
first child.
Last rites before the horde
of locusts
die, too.

Our stars,
their planets -
all named by eyes -
wash down the big black
holes
and pop out again,
dripping down
to matter,
begging to flutter
and spin towards another
silent mouth.
Wandering the Empty Corridors Of the Mothership
by Zombalaya
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