Viola of Bone

Failing once is never

enough, for the tattooed mile

 

markers of Paradise Lost etched bloody

on your dominant arm are merely

 

the finely tuned craftsmanship of catgut

constantly failing.  Can there be a grander

 

aesthetic of complete failings?  Clutch the ground

as if it could save you.  Dust is not

 

necessarily interested in ballads sounding

in a metronome of broken things.  The glory

~~~~~~~~~of suffering

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~is constant self-deconstruction.

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