Years of driven smoldering grimace.
The edge of the river littered with
ribcages-the random boatwreck.
On silty shores of broken promise.
Where the wooden posts were erected
with bite marks that resembled faces.
Pirana artists and termite accomplices.
Near the top where the wood turns black
the odd gold coin still seems to glitter.
Ambition still feeds the fish
and hope cuts like a samurai!
Each time the bridge is rebuilt
the water runs dry...
and the wood finds fire.
The blind seaside villagers tell their
overbearing chiefs well constructed lies.
Condemnation tastes so salty.
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