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Degauss (Auto-cannibalism)

March 31, 2014

onehundredandtwentyfour

I dream of rain of bombs.
I called them all to order.
They are all my pale children.
Will lay waste to fields of daisies.
As you shelter in my arms.

I will never.
Can never.
Love you, angel.
You are just a sticking plaster.
For the place the past hurts.
You sing along to whale song.
That you’ll never understand.
It was written in the palm.
Of her hand.
Somewhere far below.
The place your daisies grow.

You’ll never know.
The way the drums sound.
When you sleep.
And pray.
For rain.
Of bombs.
Liberated.
From love.
And itching dreams.
By the sterile peace of perfect hatred.

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From → Poetry

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