Grain of Mosque
She has the Devil’s hands, they say
The crooked veins circumvent the swelling
Storming crimson halted by molehills
They evaporate into obscurity without a murmur
Bicycle’s momentum clobbers clumps
Quicksand’s venus fly trap
Irrational Entity
Fossilized foil spreads sunflower petals into crevices
Fracture concealed with translucent syrup
A fissure of the canyon catalyzes rifts that rise ash
Magma sways unsuspectingly littering the rich earth with debris
Curtained by swirling splashes that peer, heavy-eyed into infrastructure
Crannies clogged with spite
Illusions spew like gushing fountains
A mirage for strained, moist lamps
The jarring motions thrust pestle to mortar
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