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StarsThey mocked us.
They mocked us by putting us in canoes, stuffed with white flowers and votive candles. As if we were fallen warrior chiefs and this was our funeral. I suppose it was, seeing as they were setting us out to sea with nothing.
I was the last one to be put in one of the three canoes, cradled like a baby as I was set down. I gazed up at Korse as he loomed over me to light the candle at the helm of my wooden vessel. The faint flame threw strange shadows across his face, and allowed me to see the beads of sweat on his bald head. The man's chocolate brown eyes caught mine as his lips pulled back into a grin.
"No famous last words?" He sneered. I did not respond, for indeed I had no brave words to say, nothing heroic or inspiring as Mikey, Ray and I were pushed out to sea. We did not try to free our hands and feet, what was the point? We had nothing but shambles of a society to go back to, nothing but blood, death and smothering heat. Gerard, our leader was dead and the Killjoys
The lines, circles, and ovals
All smooshed together
Remind me of the rings in a tree trunk
But I suppose
As we get older we don't get more fingerprints
Though we do get lines as we age
Fingerprints are all different they say
But how can that be?
When people find their soul mates
Saying that they are in unison
But I suppose
To be homogenous takes the spice out of life
If fingertips don't fit
Then bodies shouldn't click
Because perfection is boring
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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