|We write of vaginas and old Morris Minor’s,
Of flowers and mud.
Of crosses and blood.
Where angels and devils cross paths in our pens.
Temples and stables.
Fiction and fables.
We lay cards open wide, splayed over our tables.
Sometimes of crying and lying and dying.
We pen tales of terror in world’s mad distortion.
We scrawl what we scrawl in the hope that it’s real.
All we both say hey, hey.
Of maladies and passions sprouts.
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