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to frida's broken column  |
the green chaos of the abyss circles me the world’s darts pierce my flesh my backbone crumbles my soul cries and the white straps of god hold me together as my
world crumbled the salvation of the newsroom fading my prophet failing frida came to me at the smithsonian gift shop as i looked at the poster book of her paintings i knew we would be great friends she knew pain
and sunlight all in one raw real full of life and death way it was as if she was painting the landscape of my soul as well as hers |
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