Standing atop a blueprint
With a fragile foundation
As my fingers developed a limp
Testing the tension's patiences
In an ocean where white currents spit
Forth from the illegitimate stepfather of creation
Rip Van Winkle with missing history pages
Painted on his marbled forhead
such as the death of a prostitute
In Venice, a legitimate merchant.
Rusted adobe houses distilled with liquid roads
Her toes half dipped polished with blood
Running from the nose. Over rapids,
Nipple buoys floated on rose petals
Left by victor who ripper her
Stomach open to feed his family
With barley leaves black with death
Pink stomach acid glowed from what was left
A meal before exile or a fine of
Infinte breath
The tale to the shape of a square
To fill each grid increment
With pieces of fare skin
Trying to create the perfect
Beauty with foundations of intellect
I created her once
With an formula of accident, chance,
and rum
She grew into the pictures I drew
For that all we owned, all she knew
Or all I knew
Until I saw a statue of my daughter
slaughtered - the prostitute
Ever since then I only reconstruct the sunrise
To give me another day rebuild the crumbled
Building of my girl's life
But it always turns to dust at sunset
When your building with what you have left- nothing
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