The Ritual
Raspy rich voices full of stank defeat
blend into the backdrop of early morning
Blood shot eyes cling to withered memories
of lost splendor
Desire cries to lick the fruit of possibility yet
they are unable to free themselves from the
hug of death
The cankerworm has crawled into the garden
of their youth and devoured its glory
What's mistaken as a yearning to box against
the wind like a virgin finding love for the very first
time is nothing more than unsung lullabies floating
around at the bottom of a forty ounce
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