Adornments.

I do not come from,

a subservient design,

despite my inner-concubine,

not hastily constructed,

or wastefully consigned;

I don’t waste

my precious time,

I drive a shredding line,

don’t expect my feet to chase,

a handsome face because it fine;

I run so much deeper than,

polished nails on dainty hands,

not your typical specimen,

jeweled by my burdens,

anchors adorn,

rusted and salt-worn,

both feet as I shuffle along,

the curve of my horns,

in a unique pattern,

a downward spiral form,

of pearl-coat alabaster,

over time, have grown,

to block my sight,

to void out the disaster,

tracks for ghost trains,

trail all over my skin,

and upon close inspection,

see the missing sections,

see the marks and scars,

the phantoms of train cars,

like shiny diamond stars,

dressed up in resurrection.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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