awaiting the executioner's blade
with a relish not often found
outside of a wolf hungering
for a fresh killed rabbit,
staying awake long enough
to see the stars transpose themselves
to the hallays and the doors,
bending to accomodate
the evacuation of bone
and of sinew,
squirming in their own
unrehearsed dance,
bowing down before time,
waiting for exposure
to an ending,
crying for a stillness.
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