Poemhead

Ourselves

Emphatically tragic
Is a game we play
Suffer the madness
And know no better day

Contemptuous breath
Cradle to grave
Determined to win
This race for slaves

Shameful shadows
And guilts abound
Trapping ourselves
In prisons of ground

Wreathed in fleash
Our sinful bones
Burnt to ash
And crushed by stones

Murderous martyrdom
Savior of none
What gates await us,
At the edge of the sun?

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