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The Traitor Will Bleed

Years on the rack.
Stretched out and winding
Cogs and broken pieces
Shrapnel.

While I
Box upon box.
The unburied dead. The hatchet.
Littering my surroundings
The casings of a former life
The scorched earth. The salt.
The endless devastation.

While you
Small town to small town.
A view of the sea.
Several hundred miles from
The battlefront.
In your armour made of paper
And your cogs
And your litterings
Of endless vast rubbish.

A gust of wind so strong
It could send your flat and weightless 
Two dimensional sense of self
Flying. Splintering.
Lost.

I am recovered
Piling away
Myself with the remnants.
Box upon box.
The traitor will bleed.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2019




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Date: 10/9/2019 1:28:00 PM
You'll make it
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