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Myriam Saldarriaga

Death feels lukewarm,  

Like circling in an indefinite dance of ugly thoughts.  

Drunkenly, I follow non-existent footprints,  

To reach a reality melting away.  


At his door I stand, hungry  

salivating and shivering.   

Hoping to taste a thought– no  

a sliver of understanding.  


I claw away at the threshold of sanity 

Until my fingers bleed  

And I start to cry  

Why do I see your smile? 


Death is but a cruel jest,  

His eyes gouged, his lungs deflated,  

But in rotting hands, he holds what I despise most  

the answer. 

Spring 2024

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