Is it about that single, perfect
breath, the first or last? Or is
life a cigarrette, each puff glows,
disappears into a wasted butt?
For the man who hangs himself with
strings of blinking christmas lights,
a rabbit who visciously fights against
the sharp beaked owl, the whispered curses
spoken like a final prayer-
there are no answers, no rare instances
of innocence or loss. The prophet dutifully
swallows his poison, sunlight receding
behind the purpled clouds, he goes quietly
without struggle or inquiry.
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