Bake me a dozen buns
and throw in the extra
for a price so steep,
the broken oven
takes a flying leap.
Chase me toward webs
spun from pity-rubbed salt.
Cut me free with a knife
poisoned by fault.
And guilt, thick.
Pervasive. Sick.
A weight. A cloak.
Hope bespoke,
but I can’t catch smoke.
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