a plight of the quizzical

Tuesday, December 15th, 2015

summer sought to drain the vitality of my soul

and yet sober I have been in the dawn of the perpetual

ongoings and midmorning brunches where spice was never easy, never put

dreading it so, i let my sorrow and woe up for retaliation

months by three, placed in bemoaning acrostics

taken by the hand, we kissed under the arch of periwinkle misconceptions

two stones thrown left and a dime left by a beggar, i am sat on decay

months by three, thy pleasantries have left me simmering in an abode

in a conquest for the tinkering mechanic,

onto the the plight of the free

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