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Type Cast

I am your hemlock.

Do not beg me to pass your lips;

though sweet on the tongue,

I would be your final draught.


My pedestal is marble mazed

with deeper fractures

than sculptors can mend –

made milky by sentiment

washed from the skin of helpless pebbles.


I need no mirror for my reflection.

No silvered glass may spin my light

into silken threads – you gossamer-catch yourself

and offer flesh for my teeth.


But I will not bite. 


Do not make me swallow.

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