There is that character tree,

funky fonts of fabulous…
In drawers, 

I stash imperfect spirals–
sketchy, surreal interpretations

from subconscious soul.
Curvaceous quotations,

detailed extravagance–

   symptoms of my disease.
Splatters, smudges, 

depricating marks I didn’t intend.
Fingerprints that take away my value…
The frustration with potential,

manners, emotional sanctity…
I am the vestige of death.

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Vestige

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