House Can't seem to clean it, this strange-shapen house of too many windows and too few doors. Wire and woven cords spill from shocked outlets. Attempt to untangle them but they dangle untamed. Blind eyes and broken hands tumble cross towel carpet floors. Glass rafters cackle then I too tumble away. The Show History is fake. Words are curses made to shine like hope. The shining smiles, distracting shows, absurdly long tresses of leaders, bleeders, attention needers, keep our eyes locked in glorious lies.
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