These are shallow graves we dug.
But my arms are sore already.
27 years
has sure stained these hands bloody with time,
holding anger
like a dam,
it’s about time to let go.
I hope that flood drowns this
Thoughts of younger selves,
mosaiced memories,
husks of thought-like
My thoughts crunch like
cicada shells;
The sound of hollow.

You sure turned out to be a
ten pounds of shit in a five pound sack.
I’ve never been good at math,
but I know them odds;
They’re against me.

We’re walking paces.
Draw your gun.

I haven’t died at all this year.


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