Docile creates hostile,
what was once worthwhile
falls to the exile.
Touch loses textile,
meanwhile the end is approaching.
Lost to the lost,
deaf to the next thing
that comes at us,
like a bus to take us
away from ourselves.
Let the next accident
be negligent,
never sent
with consent,
just constant loss of reception.
Fuck, I hate this.
It’s just one more nail
in the coffin.
Fuck that box!
I don’t want to go yet.
I’m not done yet,
not by a long shot…
… hold for the gunshots…
… I am not lost…
HG – 2016
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