Our moments run,
like caged, rabid animals,
scratching and clawing at heels
abandoned by truth and adopted by
suicide.
We taste grit in the air, warm and stale
sunsets, broken at the yonder, coming undone bit by bit at a slow pace.
Sordid musings come back
like an epidemic, like the whore of an endemic suffocation, crawling on our
skin and underneath it.
We are the irate customers of that moment,
we pay by the scars on our skin
and haunting loops of cold conflicts, devoured, swallowed whole
by retribution against the broken reflections.
Our moments will run, till the end,
where destruction will have no meaning and
creation will have no place, where we are damned to this, and we are free,
and this would be the song to redeem
the broken bastards of bad poets.
R.
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