What a skeletal wreck of man this is

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
A deep poem

Submitted: April 19, 2013

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Submitted: April 19, 2013

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What a skeletal wreck of man this is.
Translucent flesh and feeble bones,
The kind of temple where the whores and villains try to tempt the holistic tomes.
Running rampid with free thought to free form, and the free and clear.
When the matters at hand are shelled out like lint at a
Laundry mat to sift and focus on the bigger, better, now.

We all have a little sin that needs venting,
Virtues for the rending and laws and systems and stems are ripped
From the branches of office, do you know where your post entails? 
Do you serve a purpose, or purposely serve?
When in doubt inside your atavistic allure, the value of a summer spent, 
And a winter earned.

For the rest of us, there is always Sunday.
The day of the week the reeks of rest, but all we do is catch our breath,
So we can wade naked in the bloody pool, and place our hand on the big, black book.
To watch the knives zigzag between our aching fingers.
A vacation is a countdown, T minus your life and
Counting, time to drag your tongue across the sugar cube,
And hope you get a taste. 

I'm sorry, I could go on and on but
Their times to move on so, remember, you're a wreck, an accident.
Forget the freak, your just nature.
Keep the gun oiled, and the temple cleaned shit snort,
And blaspheme, let the heads cool, and the engine run.
Because in the end, everything we do, is just everything we've done.


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