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Their Loss




Their Loss

I am on the verge of a required suffering
A looming abstention of good intention
Like mixing mild with madness
Where all fools gladly
Slip their tongues together
On a meandering mat
Matted with meaning
Wondering why everyone is screaming
The same thing about themselves
While flying magic carpets
Filled with dogs and brats
Whose cacophony float
Sounds above all
For the Hell of it
With a bleating of Bats
I would drink coffee but it now burns my stomach
Churning toward death
Routine bleeds itself into the day
I can't be myself so imitate others
Improving on their unaware dynamic
Until they envy me
Until their last breath
This makes me superior to them
In their egotistical opinion
Still, go for it I say
At some point it's the end of the day
As they say
Which is when I can come out to play
With myself relief
While mourning their loss
On my good grief


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