Things forgotten

Life traps a residue like moment
a moment of despair.
With tales of spring in my womb often,
I see and walk like ghosts of my colony
a blue visual, often collapsing into my blood
A blob of dark moles puzzled,
a thing to bury.
My hands become circus and they run like fire,
fire that burns my own madhouse body.
Fire that cascade the tangent crux of eyes.
Life happens like cities, forgotten.
Forgotten like honey and vinegar.

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