The Twist

Your bitter writings twist my stomach.
The deadliest fallowed depths of the soul,
Forgetting that which is whole,
A depth I cannot perceive,
But my fingers type,

A deathly wait on those typings,
Fingers of writings,
Words falling into place,
A time left behind,
On the western fronts,
We fall into time,
We fall into language,
Our words, our meanings,
Become one.

We wait to find,
But we sought more often,
And by that time,
We have forgotten,
What we were really looking for,
To be slaves,
To be masters,
No longer,

To be equals,
A foundation...

The End

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