plucking maggots from dreamcatchers

in those
fleeting seconds
where the day
coalesces with
the death of
sleepless night
anything can
seem possible
in strained
notes of
before the
sudden weight
of wakefulness
expels lingering
from the tongue
of insomnial

plucking the
larvae twitching
in dream catchers
as reality falters
under its own
gravitational pull
feeling the
fat grubs burst
a slough of
acrid incessance
to trickle past
the tonsils of
actuality triggering a
gag reflex of
intensity to
disassemble the shadows
of expired aspiration


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