Bullet Shell

A sodden scrimshaw soul
Slipped through my ribs.

These ribs like chalk, or lime,
Same age as all time.

Handled me like a concert piece
Without its own brass,

I couldn’t explain
Why I didn’t complain.

There’s no such thing
As dodging a bullet,

There’s no such thing as
Stored in a cloud.

Language is always used
To curate lies to a crowd.

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