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Pretty, Early Grave.

Body like an itchy sweater,
his soul scratches, though never
truly satisfies:

transient relief only.
Salve. No antidote.

Pouring all he has into
a cup that will not fill. All
no seeming return.

Must be bottomless. 
Must fall right through. 
Might as well jump

in this hungry hole himself,
lie on the pyre and feed
the fire with you.

Fatal, predatory trick, boy:
can you resist the allure —
that intoxicating odor
drawing you into
a pretty, early grave?


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