Emilia Womp

February 18, 2003
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The crumbling tower

A boy with pruning skin and hollow eyes
has a brother, who’s thrice his size.
They march on and on, down spiraling stairs,
the crumbling tower is built like a maze.
“What a wonderful day” grandma says,
meanwhile a brick flies by her face.
She breathes in the rot, inspects the dust,
crackling stairs and moldy crust.
Steps fall to pieces, yet they’re still alive.
There’s no concern, they will survive.
“Have a sandwich Charlie” grandma demands,
and the smallest boy extends his hands.
His face is a skull with tightly pressed skin,
he wishes to eat more than anything.
She turns away, he lets out a sigh,
his brother inhales it all in one bite.
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