The Poet’s Tome VIII

The borders are flung open, our vagaries let in, false declarations of our sorrow, the honesty of sin. We climb from the depths of our dark dank holes to share our shameful mystery, that we imagine a different future, void of claims to present history. We shed our heavy burdens as we turn upon each other, becoming supplicants of disgrace, casual brutality for pleasure.

Do not eat me until I’m dead.

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