Bring on the Empty Horses
The silt settles deep in my throat
plugging my conscience
blinding my senses
(all except for touch)
The dirt stings, resting long under my skin
rust stains my wrists and
cobwebs claw at my corners
What is it about mornings
that makes me cry?
Liquid poison, pseudo acid rain
pours over me, cracks my skin
pours over me, kills the me within
(or what's left of him)
Solemnity saves me
from the cold shoulder of a friend
or the calm of an enemy
What is it about mournings
that makes me cry?
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