The House of Fallen Stars

is built on dreams and
agonies that were known too late.

Both mannequins and puppeteers
lay beneath the ashes of rosewood
and petals. The lords and laborers
drink blood like wine and through
their gullets pass equal measures
of stone and excrement.

I bear the flesh
wounds inside.

My eyes continue to see the crumbles
from the roofs. I can still hear hysteria
forcing me to enter. The vines carry fruits;
they are strings that pull me under.

“Dig through the dirt, then
climb up.” You taught me
light can still shine
from the ground.

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