xvii.

Mother reaches

out to that

sleeping child

 

Remove my

Father’s mask

I’ve worn it myself,

with its eyes drawn.

 

Each vapour turning

the scleras,

painting streaks

with a light crimson

 

Sights now of

blotted pets,

of black and

silver void

 

Mother reach

out and peal

each mask

 

So this reflection

is no longer

of a tangled

beast

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