You seemed to have everything in hand, the day we split Terry’s place,/surrounded by unmarked graves in sodden fields./Then we knew we were little men,/no big stuff,/thus dangerous rites undertaken/our lives threatened, our forms glowing,/from cans of zinc powder/hardly feel the air when breathing/we wait, beserk, until beserk takes over/Barren fields too, lined by fir trees;/you show me fake gems you bought at the Five and Dime. Repeating the dread cycle, once more alone:/heaven above sulks over it’s lost treasure./Sooner or later, I’ll glide by in a whisper,/past the point of frolic,/looking for a winner/take that ancient path/ find my stride.

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