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Tangled Strings

Arthritic hands maneuvering the marionette man in his pillbox hat
As he stands
Mumbling the old hymns of a long fought generation
Tired, reconciled to fate
Bleeding from the wounds of a dirge formed dagger whispering it’s own melody beneath his quietly forming crimson scarf
Songs, hymns, history forming in the rotting tube of his scratch pipe esophagus
Apostolic Beatles corrupter
Dancing ragged enchantment across the melody poisonings of his mid-week exhalations
Stock legged stumbling, our past-exalted pilgrim
Twisting his ballad with Frank
For the decades dashed children of our newborn todays
And maybe,
It was his tears in the dark,
Not mine
That wept for who we were supposed to be

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