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Broken Bicycles
Broken bicycles, bloated balloons, belie the litter of the mind; sidewalk remnants strewn across the lawn flit like leaves still sewn within a book, shifting with each breeze, bound and blown, byproducts before their time; candy wrappers, cans, and cardboard boxes so swirl around the axis, cemented spokes and frames rusting on the verge of idleness, as whirling whirlpools of cascading glass, tarnished autumn and vows of yesterday nullify the self - fulfilling prophecy: if souls revolve around the rubber rim in horizontal rides on red-lined tires, and eyelids hover on the hub of sleep, and tattered toys demanding tears, we weep in fallow floods of floating lines of fault, and stucco shrinks in sheetrock, marsh and salt - a moiling mess of muddled moss and mire - and dreams defend the drowning of desire, and we in off-key pictures, blackened song, return in sidebars, thickened thumping throng of half-built hopes and stairs and sinks on stilts, when depression lists against itself and tilts, then we the broken cycles clean of mold and only then the limping truth unfold.
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