Casio keys,
A falsetto mess,
Crying women
fill the streets;
I could never breathe,
While winter fears its rest.
I mourn the death of
myself, and the world,
From poisoned ideals
and expired religions,
Traditions of a nation
left awake at night.

The variations on my heart,
A new sentimentality
with old creaking joints,
They sold us the names
of our daughters,
And burned pictures of
happier times;
Buried truth in
elided lives and
these faceless
recreation myths.

A small frame hung at dawn,
Bellwether, I couldn't
see for the trees.
Her hair still moved
in rebellion, but
hate left jaded eyes
for the first time,
Fey realized.
I would cry for the beauty,
Sob for the sorrow,
And find solace in death,
Yet life was elegiac
in this last respect,
I was saved, and broken,
A tarnished crest.

The End

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