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Rōnin

March 18, 2017

onehundredandfiftyeight

A dog as dark as Sturm und Drang.
Stalks on the moors.
And lurks in the drains.
Hangs in the air.
Like spoiled sheets on the line.
Ruined birthdays.
Feeding time.

Pull up the drawbridge.
Lock up the church.
The siege was here.
Now the siege is worse.
Scent the hounds.
And bait the hooks.
Fuck the poor.
Burn their books.
All it takes is a cockeyed look.
We’ll burn the whole thing to the ground.

A dog as dark as a poppy seed.
Feeds the hunger.
But starves the need.
Nothing to do but watch and bleed.
Beneath the skin.
Beneath the sky.
Nothing born, not born to die.

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From → Poetry

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