MOURN-DAY OF THE WEAK

MOURN-DAY OF THE WEAK
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On a Mourn-day Mourn-ing,
You rise from your bedbug-invaded bed
for school
And open your eyes to the fact
That the thunder of death has stricken your mirror
That the heat of life has melted your gold — away
into the limbo of dream.

Now, you live no more, but only exist
Like a handsome king whose testicles were shoved
down his own throat.
You begin to lose it all — the verdure, the focus,
the serenity, the beam of your smile
And the life you used to feel from within
The world tilts in your sight,
You tilt with it, for you’ve weeped away your stamina.

WAke! Rise!
Find yourself within these words,
Neither sympathy nor condolences
But the power to do more and more and more.
Let the sacrifice of the ‘gone’ smiles suffice
And their memory strengthen
Till the last words crawl from your mouth.

 

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