Some like to play
But for me
I think about,
The thin, cold edge
Biting deep,
Hot rush pulsing out
Quickly diminishing
In time with
My fleeing consciousness,
Some find a thrill
But I dream of a release
That would cause too many
Pain.
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Some like to play
But for me
I think about,
The thin, cold edge
Biting deep,
Hot rush pulsing out
Quickly diminishing
In time with
My fleeing consciousness,
Some find a thrill
But I dream of a release
That would cause too many
Pain.
Posted on April 29, 2018 at 2:56 AM in Mike, Poetry | RSS feed | Reply | Trackback URL
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