Fictions Of Fine



I’ve got an

old cramp

inside my

old lamp.


The dark I

live is usual.

Truth I tell is

truth refusal.


I love whisp

there it goes.

Cloaked dim

head to toes.


So I’ll hang

here like a

scarecrow I

feel the day.


I’ve become

scared of my

own light at

night I cry.


Tell me a

joke I laugh,

but in joy is

quick past.


Truth is die

does this lit

light in me I

cry so for it.



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