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ART FROM THE DARK
The lavishness of such words
Dripping and drooling
From our lips
As we choke on the stench
Of humanity of such words
As if it were the dry earth itself
We consume to nurture
And quench our thirst
For the familiarity
Of being such a liked person
The verses of infidelity
We breath within our hearts
But yet can not say
As the wood from our coffins
Would surely splinter our throats
Leaving us parched and dry mouthed
At such thoughts
The fingerprints that show
Each one of us to be
A single mere human being
Within our own right
Burned away by the need
Of our fastidiousness to write
Within ink blurred lines
For the world to see
And yet the words still flow
From the source of our
Cold lonely dead souls
Seeping out into the darkness
Through the earth
And into the light of the world
Just waiting to be discovered
© Valhalla bound