A ring of blood around a rancid sink, from crimson red to fresh flesh pink.
The speckled ash in the fire place. The dried tears upon his face.
Care dwindles in his mind, he ponders martyrs and hedgehogs.
War doesn't burden his heart.
He eats his t.v and the sitcoms leave a bitter taste in his mouth.
A crooked trunk on his gardens tree reminds him of his back.
He kicks broken pottery in the street, his path littered.
His friends swim in methamphetamines.
He just sits back and watches the world burn before the glows depleted.
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