Some ire never leaves,

When chosen, deliver her from evil, mentally reprieve,

When spurning is stunned,

By a mourning’s morning with hot tea and warm wheat buns,

The heat numbs,

A shooting mind, the smoking gun,

To discover justice in death dealt,

Replicate a heart’s death felt,

By pulling of thin metal…

A man’s test of mettle,

A woman’s refusal to settle.

Red in eyes, hot in palms,

Dead with whys, I cannot calm,

Oh some ire never leaves,

A season constant which terror deaves,

Please choose to believe in an end,

The abject thoughts seem to recommend,

A cutting out of a blackened heart,

A blackened art,

Displayed on light posts to find the missing parts,

And to avoid the prospect of being simply sick,

She simply sick, in mind and soul,

In heart, my goal,

To cut out the infected organ…to save the body,

The little body,

A quick chance to finally be me, ungodly…

I’m sure, that some ire never leaves the hearts of the chronically unpleased,

It never breaks from its hallow chambers of muscle and ribs,

It’s crib…

Where it rests until direct activation,

Of its true purpose with agitation,

And finally lay rest to clamor of exaggeration,

My goal, my aspiration.


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