3 years ago
Monday, October 15, 2007
is there guilt in laying in wake for the pestilence to take life? there is no relishing this act, only solace in the knowledge of some truth that emerges. the dead will march on, regardless of my presence. is it poetry to commit this to memory? there is no room for poetry here. only pure emotion. pour it out onto the tableau of contrivance, then sop it up with withering napkins. illegitemacy is the song of the day. leftist movements take over my mind, tell it to reshape, but there is no traction with this method. captive is my audience. left broken by the tragedy of it all. symbiotic in its pose. all in all, a worthwhile juncture for listing the effects of an ever mounting file of circumstantial evidence. fiduciary responsibility aside, the scales have tipped in your favor, weighing on my conscience with a feather's magnitude.
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