Crouched

Grey is streaked.
The spindled clouds
Surround a sword of gold,
And down below,
The ravens and crows,
The ones you know.

Your fabrications,
Alcohol in open flesh.
You weren't oppressed.
You just grew lazy.

Back into your shady shell,
You little one.
You're not quite built for love.
You only falter
Telling tired stories
Failing to disguise
Your festering fantasies,
Obsessions fleeing
You watch retract,
Too stunned by fear to snatch.

You haven't wounds
You didn't slice into yourself.
You died some years ago.

- 2/4/25

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