The Chances Have Hurt The Most.

Evaporated I’m under the glass case,

Recorded for the echoes of waste

6 feet under the gasoline fuse in the race,

Noxious suffocating for the bitter taste.

Vacuum sealed and revealed to lack,

All the windows for to turn back

Addressing a family’s profuse callous fact,

Cushioned in the poised messy tact.

The Real is gone to the lost April dusk,

Grasping perspectives is caught wallowing 

Is following the victims of the cannibal musk,

Gasp the weight of the militant pain

When the chances have hurt the most,

To have made you a ghost.


Categories: Art, PoetryTags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

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