it is to be expected
having finished with this
container...
at last, finished!
under a stark suns' gaze
let the carcass rot!
and as moon hours churn
let it be as carrion,
fit provision, as nourishment
to night creatures,
the womb, from which
the magot dines
absolution has perished
drawn the short straw,
each breath tasting of pain
accumulating to its crest
it is my exhalation
a vile disease choked out,
to hang in the air, dank
awaiting evaporation...
to drift away,
into emptyness
my wisp of joy,
a cherished labor,
and promise
wgs 1/09
Final Thread (revamped)
- justwalt
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Final Thread (revamped)
many is a word
- Lightning Rod
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