With each hasty word, I draw
one
more
thirsty
twig
From under the pile of desiccating stems
That is my family.
Our precarious perch
Will drop its fruit to the undergrowth,
And the wind will apportion the stench of silence
Between us.
Soon
We will scream back at the din of echoes
That ring against our thatch-work,
And huff.
And puff.
Till we all fall down.
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