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Drone

July 7, 2013

eightynine

A Hessian wrapped in indigo.
A bishop, a rapier, a shadow puppet show.
Slight, scarred and staring.
Just below the surface of the water.
Reeds running cool and free in the river.
Wrapped around your ankle.
Delivered by analgesic.
Trapped by duty.
Bring me your boy.
I’ll break him in half.
Just like the last one.
Hardly the best part of a man.
But starved enough to draw blood.
He’d best love death as much as I do.
Twelve years of tenure, the payment is due.
The feeble flower of spreading contusion.
Fed on fucking nothing.
Violence drawn to its logical conclusion.
Aconitum, its autumn, there’s some irony in that.
Lay a wreath by the stone and hear the ground laugh.
You can’t break me because I was born into chains.
Each link locked and forged in the dawn of lost sleep.
Bring me down.
I’d welcome the peace.
Without struggle.
Know that they will always drag me back to my feet.

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From → Poetry

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