Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god

Wage slave

A demon in dark skirts,
Trudging up stairs
In the pouring rain,
Praying curses to each drop
That sunk into her skin.

The wind whipped through
Her mess of curls,
Sending chills to her body,
Ones that cavorted
Around her spine.

Boots scuffed, a spiral on
Her chest, she puts on a
Sarcastic smile
And demeans herself further
By giving her words
To a community of fools.

Goaded into submission,
This angel of emptiness
Takes her place in the present,
For she is not so sure
She'll have a future.

November 7 2008


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Wage slave

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