capitalism

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Everything has a price...

Submitted: April 11, 2007

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Submitted: April 11, 2007

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Here even the flowers seem to decive.

They wear what I can't believe.

Divine white with brutal red.

My time has been bled.

My house is in ruin.

Not my soul's illusion.

I own nothing but demons.

I wear them like lesions.

This that and the other,

accumulate and devour.


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