In paper machete envelopes
Made of skin.
Glued in the corners
Return to sender
In bright red letters.
So old, you can feel each and every wrinkle
Once young and smooth,
Now old and rough.
Walls made up of skeletons,
Dead for years.
Flies lie lifeless on the floor
From the horrid smell of deceased bodies,
Once young and cool,
Now old and barely held together
All hidden in paper machete envelopes,
Made of skin,
Never reaching their unknown destinations.
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