There you stand, under the new moon,
resonating with the rumbles.
Carrying the shackles of the life,
Running along the edges of the world.
Rubbing blood on the sides of the knife.
You spell the world as e-n-d
and blame man for the life;
where f is as silent as other humans are
when they devour one of them.
So you love none,
but make love to many.
And put them to sleep in your lap,
as they miss their mother run over by the bulldozers
for the dreams of the upper echelons;
where you belong to.
Where you never felt belonged to.
For the shackles for me and you were the same,
yours just invisible.
Mine, just tempting. Your urges to give up, a bit everyday;
Mine yet to live. Wither and weep.
In the peaceful lap of someone,
have some sleep...
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