Strange To Compare

So may these sounds/ that seem like sheep bleating/turn into throngs, forced to obey:/in the memories, the recall,/ they found out:revenge really is sweet./But no one wants to realize/they were born weeping;/the wind up routine from mild responses,/grey matter full of holes,/it governs the highs and lows/.But you can still fish, whenever you’re ready,/as a can of worms amounts/ to a can of beans./The factor of this threat is a mild one,/ it passes swiftly, annulled,/and when it passes, it leaves empty spaces,/of subjection, abjection revealed,/the senses glow in patterns./You can mull over a bird’s eye view/ you seem to have all your grief./I can’t help it,/I wrestle with this paradigm,/I cook outside, move past the door/that leads to the river./I’m cranking out my own last meal./I’ll leave behind watches,/striped ties and wedding rings,/plot my life’s end in an instant,/I’ll catch my number as soon as my soul springs.

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