Silence
Kills
There are
those that turn the music off
Dead
souls in a visceral rush
They
don’t hear the angels cry
They
don’t even try
Life
rushes by disguised as time
There’s
always tomorrow, in reality today
Their
smug inevitability with care for aesthetics
Their
primitive desires residing in the base
In great
greed they aspire
Crookery
their cookery, they suck like fat slugs
Filled to
slither, they then etch away
Eyes
darting looking for innocent prey
This is
the soul where love is only a fix
Aesthetics
used as an anesthetic
Hear
their laughter as they steal in your face
With
their overfed bitches, they’re the lowest caste
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