Sonntag, 2. September 2012

my life

With sharp scissors through the throat
My death will not get to me
he goes with no finger pointing at me, the perpetrator
dying, he throws all in thrall
as there is no accommodation me the guilty
I awoke from gruesome deed
the thirst to love the mark of Cain wash in skeleton
Leaves fallen pieces of silver of the ancestors consolation
my life given tree will wither




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