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Life runs on like
a sentence with no
conclusion to tell,
no judgement day
or heaven’s gates
hell is a picture
frame or the point
where our passion
curves back in
towards us as we
recoil to become
our names, getting
wasted on our
life-long sentences
slow and slurred,
our words bend from
behind bars and
weave between
beams, become
germinating seeds
in the open ear
beside: and it’s the
closest thing to
a melody stuck to
our jagged minds
are corners we tuck
each other into for
safe keeping as we
are fucked–running
for our lives, away
from sights of cinder
blocks to engage in
a war with the walls
we hit our heads against.

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