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The world is smoldering
the heavens lay gently
beneath my worn feet
and I am still walking.
My diary has been exposed
in the form of tears and
distant cries for help,
but I’m fine with that.

I’m also fine with these
words and what they do
to me, what they turn
me into: hugging tearful,
rage-soaked syllables
in the middle of three am;
softly carving lines of
poetry into my arms with ink
trying to fine meaning in
such a romantic fashion.

And yet everything continues
to burn like a forgotten
cigarette during a drunken
meeting between
mournful third-world
leaders.

This place remains ugly
and callous;
young hearts are trampled
upon and discarded
with the passing winds

Sinners, I guess. Religious
zealots, Nazis, Saints,
they’re all the same: they
all believe in God.
I don’t, but maybe
that’s because I’m too
afraid it will send me to hell.

– r.o.a

Listening to: As Friends Rust – Home is Where the Heart Aches [album: the Fists of Time]

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