sore

can it be that I
am the very most thankful
because I am the one
with none of the regrets,
your sentence of life,
my sentence of love and
the final last breath of warm
reassuring hate, and fury, and
oh, great lasting day we made,
ruined by blasting on
trough the incomplete distance that
we have decided to waste the
entire year gripping and growing on,
wanting a drink and trying to
work the flesh of too many
friends that are not our good
wanting moon type of bloody mess,
companions worse for wear yet we run
from those willing to help us
play in the long tooth evil we have
seen as the love of our
very lives like the days of old
splashing red, and
being drugged down inside
the mystic
lunar eclipse

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About jaybeasley2

a writer, a painter, a poet, a wordsmith
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