Tugging at the truth, she turns red roses brown.
Ambiguously brown.
But we needn’t stare.
That dame don’t know she’s nothing but a poster.
Brace yourself.
She sets a fire in your hair.
The neon frost sings with one roaring spark.
She puffs the flame with a planet smashing blink of her expressway eyes.
Go ahead. Be a fading Magdalene. I will have none of this.
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