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Abstract Daddy

September 20, 2015

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Amongst decapitated roses.
Under a scentless sky.
The medicated whore reposes.
A petal on each eye.

Her hair is made of brandywine.
Her teeth are made of chrome.
Her ankles bound in broken chains.
A thousand miles from home.

What malignant prophecy called her?
Faith is for the sons of fools.
Hope for truth and order.
Where chaos ever rules.

A funny thing, to pray for death.
At the foot of Hypnos’ throne.
But in the light, to pray for life.
And pray for life, alone.

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From → Poetry

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