Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god

The tenth, right?

They nailed him with needles,
Needing to understand how his mind
Could organize such malice within
Its catacombed rooms.

His thoughts are slick like oil,
His neck tenses and an oppulence
Of desire flows from his talented teeth.
No words are necessitated, the
Nerves twist and pull and silence
Becomes our mother tongue.

The orderlies lie him on a bed,
Strap him in and stick noise
Into his nervous smile.

They offer him a chance, and like
All voids, he refuses, his eyes as
Wide as an owl's, seeing all
The lies that are fed to him via tubes.

In the morning, he will be no more
Alive than he is dead.
Though he maintains a pulse,
He will be mourned as though he
Never had a chance to live.


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The tenth, right?

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