Beauties

by Renwick Berchild

It’s a mad clamor for the door,
Bodies trying to squeeze into a heart that
Divides all who enter.

They go up like a tinderbox,
Waving as tendrils of smoke who have lost their forms
To some unholy spirit, writhing in an emptiness.

They vanish with a breath.
Their echoes are heat, and shadows.

No voices.

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