Gripped icily, outside a morgue I see, invitingly the perigree of a lunar apology, to the tune of a soliloquy. The homestead beats its heart for me, but I hear no plea. The stark, harshness of the darkness speaks and the barking trees sap at the hearkened heed of an artless deed, as the cuckoo chirps its last marching tweets.

I’ve passed the torch at least, but I speak thoughts like cornered thieves, as I bleed for these unguarded treats, they’re all parts of me. The hardest part is the tarnished art of falling prey to the day that falls away in the crawling fall where the call is a gnawing paw at a snoring thrall.

Damn, I’m just about done with it all. Rewind the tape, replay the track, make haste as the wind entertains the tack, the brain has lapsed, but the waning mask is a sane redress to an aimless ask. Are we repaid at last, or dismayed in fact? Sat facing facts cast, pained in stainless glass.

Did I eat too fast, or is my hunger back? Should my lungs give out or remain intact. Is there fun in that, will the thunder crack, or will the rhyme lose pace as we miss the flash. Only time will tell, if I quell the lack, I’ll at least have time to retrace the map.

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