Twenty-Four Years

 Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes.

(Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour.
)
In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor
Sewing a shroud for a journey
By the light of the meat-eating sun.

Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun,
With my red veins full of money,
In the final direction of the elementary town
I advance as long as forever is.

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