By: Emily Ellison
What is the value of temerity
if in slugging along, I am still
a lugubrious snake in the state
of cardiovascular plunder? This gut
holds but the jitters of mice
tucked inside themselves, a false
scale of scary valor found in the twisting
spine-whip shape of baseness.
How can I perfect my forked craft
of the reptilian ground when my scepter-
skin, red with blood-anticipation,
hides the fur of frenetic
lowlife underneath slick composition?
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