sábado, 16 de novembro de 2024

The thirds, the friends, a nice clean death

 We happened on the enemy
Can we destroy them all
their structures their bodies sending them
to oblivion? dying and appalled

My aim was true
when I threw the grenade

No truce we swore
here we are appeasing 
Like unpaid whores
our salacious teasing

My aim was true
The bomb burst excitement

Here bargaining to make it even
with enemies we see as demons
this process of false respect
If we could just burn it down

Throwing ourselves into a future
where we would fly into fragments

The dogs and bats flee making tracks
with pigeons and rats still clinging to their backs
and smoke like vision sees us waiting for death
infront of long high fences we are pests

if we could just admit by pulling the pin
This is the future we cooked and coveted

embodying the pride we once fussed over
That caged us in and marinated us all over
For the well aimed bullet's art
it's destiny our heart

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