in the long languorous lines
left by the drips of paint
performing their tragic
comet trail before the altar of gravity
as they consume their own vitality
and I wonder how much this means
that I see the letters
and how the weight of itself has made them
run
what does my own mass compel
and in compelling burn
through this wax effigy of a frame
till I cry the end the end
and am done.
Perhaps they will find these letters
and watch the wax drops run.
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