It’s much like the the sprawling ruin
with the endless staircase:

every arcane cold grey block
icy and smooth under panicked feet;

it carries waves of orange fire deep within,
but somehow gutted and turned around:

licks of flame pierce the eye
after the break and the crash.

Much like that, and much like the terror
in sleep; something huge and green

always two stone steps behind
or two steps above

and you left both hot and cold
like an inauthentic dish

Authentically turned inside out
like a bowl of fried ice cream.


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