In the self-charcoal’d dark of feeling owed
Counting out stolen oats, broken oaths
The throats I would throttle to breaking if only they closer came
In this close space, with clothes frayed
Nails broken with ceaseless scraping, ruined chassis
Unchained stasis, sin-stained
As if this evil carapace would be escaped
Taken away and burnt like remaining traces.
Alchemisland 
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