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Cold

What little is left?
The audience green,
Not knowing the distress that experience brings.
The cold knowledge,
The dead knowing,
The killed secret kept.

A painful portrait;
Scars as colors,
An emblem for all that hurt.

A cycle too well-known,
Escaping the routine slaughter,
Before the swift charming,
Seductive swirl sweeps,
What little lush is left.

The definite indecisiveness,
The contract that is set in stone;
That all its subject to change.

Bailing beautiful, blissful ignorance,
For being bludgeoned by hell.
By
Published: 4/28/2017
Bouquets and Brickbats
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