Thursday, 7 July 2011

No more than a bloated memory

They see you wounded and they pretend you are dead

Forgotten, helpless

They say their prayers, blow their kisses on your forehead

as if you were to care

In vain you open your mouth

the words are bubbles of spit

suspended in the air

a child's play for the devil's heir

They soon forget about you

your name a hole on the stone

without cracks, with no way to leave

to drift away from their idiocy

Forever a liquid contained in the emptiness within

past and present

a lie covers another lie

it flies and cries my rage 

never ending my despair 

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