Comforting
fortunes
Wrapped in
arms of paper
Nonsense of
bewildered words
Fallen down
like lifeless birds
Sounds of
silence
Bring his
call
Do not
destroy him
Do not be
his wrecking ball
Allow the
vines
That chokes
his silent voice
Display his ruptured
spine
Praise him
he is divine
Paradise of
imagery
Nothing only
darkness falls
Laying on
the tinted blades of grass
Memories blast
from the past
Allow the
vines
Laying on
the tinted blades of grass
Displaying his
ruptured spine
To succumb
drifting skin
As he lays
on territorial ground
His pulse
race
His heart it
pounds
Silent gentle
whispers
Praise him
he is divine
Lifting his
darkness up
As his pulse
race
All he has
is time
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