Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god

On Tuesdays, death and I hold a tea party...

Skin like a desert,
The simplicity stains my
Fingertips and I fathom
The taste of loss.

Death scuttled in.

Sat him on a chair,
Together we waited
For age to warp the marrow.

The consequences, I
Suffer them like burns everyday.

Such old maids frozen
In time, we have nothing
More than sublime hearts
Bursting like overfed children.

Disdain growing,
I'm able to layaway
My soul in a deluge
Of common hatred.

10-12-10


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On Tuesdays, death and I hold a tea party...

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