Radiation Will Be The Judge To Which You Will Testify

Sore Losers

laying by the side of a river,
deafened by the rush
vicious patches of thorns, composed of
fake liars with devil horns
screaming audacious and flippant
begging for their sirens of farce to be heard
but the pure refuse
demur and recuse
and tread back to the cottage,
surrounded by vines and valleys
dispossession of time as a resource,
letting go of those fruitless desires,
empty baskets of pleasure
pure hatred fill them now 
Broken, blistered and wartorn
Forgetting memories of peace
a conflict too important to ignore
your folklore are lies, your freedom is folly,
sullen soldiers fighting a battle not theirs,
like women selling their bodies in bali,
you too, are dying inside out, in a gutter you’ll rot bare

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