Part 3: Art Studio

Dense the

scent of

turpentine

 

As these uncalloused

hands

Bare no brute

nor metal

 

If I were

not to etch

in words, the

silent soliloquy

 

In the metallic

grime, to place

a footprint that

would mark

what was

 

Their empty pizzeria

boxes stacked,

beside my bed

a cooling tea fills

my wordless mouth,

 

In other hands

maybe this ink,

would be more

worthless now

 

 

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