Paper shells

We walk as 

footsteps upon faces,

-

linking prodding, examining

fingers that judge shape,

-

To a love, love that isn't human. 

As we all walk three roads home,

-

Iron wire coat hangers bulging 

from our paper shells,

-

We are living, 

living as tin

-

Footsteps on a pavement of soul

We leave something more behind.

The End

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