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What a terrible era in which idiots govern the blind;
where the world we want rears the world we hate. Lo!
pencils which tend to squeal upon slates; henceΒ fetters
of silk upon sense are bind. The eye of the sun was red
as blood; we marched on forth through the streets of
mud.

Theories shattered beneath thus weight; we believed
their words and tuned them in. Lest we compress in
a sable state; stumbling back in light and shade agin.
Combat thus contrite chords in the hour of plight; a
white plumed battle of ferocious waves.

Torment, madness, tears and sin;
Can’t burn us up or paint our skin.

 

 

Photo credits:Β pheopic.ru

Dark Poetry for Cruellest Month

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