I’m not the kind of drum you play one time.
Not the kind of song you put on repeat for one night.
I am the cartridge that you try desperately to get working.
Blowing it
Over and over again.
You have been left drained
The vessels in your arms are hollow.
Mushrooms grow and spores manifest in the layers of your skin that is unseen.
Your breath use to taste like diamonds.
Compressed with thought and emotion.
Exhaled without warning as the liquid nitrogen escapes the caverns of your frame.
You were well excavated
Doubtful the next generation will find anything of value.
Your treasures are in my possession.
You don’t want me to return them
You just want me to play with them again.

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