Climb up upon that rock
among the muddy waters,
apart a part of
the blue dream rushing
and thick tree hisses.

Little doll's hand,
porcelain forced in
fisted fingers thrust
from rubble, from scrap heap,
stabs toward the stars.

Tear from a sleep
with ghosts and ashes.
Kick that coffin door
to scream, "I'm
not dead yet bastards.
I've got a future memory.

"There's still a lil' fire left
here for Nero's fiddle."

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