Scraps of unfinished original poetry

“Questions”
in a husky alto,
she asks a question;
in a fluttering soprano, you answer
fingers unfurling, knuckles regaining color,
you brace yourself for impact.

untitled i
enflamed lungs, engulfed by the seasons,
eroded by the cosmos, mixed by the air,
and emboldened by poorly tuned music
living throughout cities with spite

untitled ii
sharp teeth
glint with a certain
kind of menace
underneath the flourescent force
of light shining so blindingly bright

untitled iii
i stopped dreaming of the future
and no one notices
because the present is cary enough
and i need no more fear
to dictate my life already
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