Her Malady, Put to the Supreme Test (unfinished?)

Her insides are all sprockety gears,

rusty and unmeshed.  With ticks and false

starts they move her along to some malady playing forever

in her head.

She knows it like the tips of her fingers always ending in the same place

She knows it in her sleep where it follows her no matter that she tries to sing something different her voice a cacophony against it with one deep long breath she fights until there is no more breath.

And the inside comes rushing out to finally command the whole.


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