Losses to gains, you remain without a name. Wiggling your fake fleshy spoils to entice their loving toils, too bad it’s never enough to win any childhood dream.
Blue ribbons you will not, as your prideful mounds begin to rot, looking lonely as their gaze peer past memories of who you once thought yourself to be.
We all trudge upon the deaths of others, mirrors of experience and lust. The lust of one is a solitary road, dragging in the blur of pills and mushy words, taking no prisoners but the self-truisms. Followed by no backing, the backs of others are not yours. You look back …
Your age wears on, deeper into the sooty fresh insides. Year by year, there is no hand to hold but your own. The beauty of tender is no longer splendor and you touch your guts to brace for the edge.
Finis.
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