Love’s
Combatants
Exquisite
is the pain of those that life will disdain
Wretched
domain is the curse of all night in vain
Suffering
the cane of a mind locked in the brain
Sadness
is then the constant rain
Restlessness,
so no sleep and the turmoil churns
Curse of
inadequate where dysfunction burns
Societal
exiles stand on the fringes lit by neon and glares
Symptomatic
of troubles and nobody cares
Don’t
look for blame, which is always lame
Disaster
of the small mind in a parochial chain
Don’t
pity me for I will hate myself
Disaster of
a tautology that sees goodness and whores as filth
Then
belief is a thief for it encourages hope
Reality
scorns and is a thorn for those trying to cope
So long
to find nirvana
Before it
becomes time for Valhalla
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