Errant Fictions

Gather up the dust,
Locations long lost.
Stitch them together,
The dolls long have torn we are.

Hear cries in the night,
Spoken words buried.
Clawing out a purchase,
Dig up the grave with a mind to rob.

Spinning stories of errant impulses,
Made with prayers from tooth and claw.
Eyes want to shut out those sermons,
That only served to burn our surroundings.
Thomas Spychalski 

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