A Nights Ill Lament

I dance with words of happiness and take a smile from the ledge of what rims a ditch of lies. Old scars allow the poison to flow from the rivers that sing sour notes of woe. A night spent alone with years of cold comfort from only a blank space that others have already filled. The bullet entertains vodka fueled caresses against the temple of a mind beating to escape the ever sinking hole. Lights from false places blind others to the glare of what is lacking in the soul behind. Where others set a table for two the one lurks in shadows of that foreboding tomb. A sin to be the damned when all around is merriment and wine. Bells to sing of union ring out for the placement of the single six feet down. A nine mm hole in the skull that housed all a human shouldn’t have to know. Pure fire venom the only drug to dull the pain as the black flower grows on the grave. When one begs to be bound to sources of positive glow but is released to the wilds of an ill conceived cell. The padding not to protect the victim but to keep the normal from having to feel the guilt of their greatest shame. For if the blood of the damned were to stain societies clean robes they couldn’t ignore the spoil. Self inflicted death a hollow dream the world cannot allow to be portrayed. The lost who wish this solution to be drugged and numbed so they may smile and wave. Placate the masses of the happy horde as they march to notes of church bells and casual sighs


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