Argot

We call it an Embrace,
But it’s not anything so…
Romantic.
.
What it is, what it is, is like
Being a deer, being
Pulled down by a pack of wolves.
.
Only the wolves all share the same skin
All snare with the same eyes
All tear with the same teeth.
.
We call it a Gift,
But it’s not anything so…
Gracious.
.
It’s very little Give,
And a whole lotta Take,
Not so much a kiss, as, well…
.
What you have left, when
The wolves have rent and run
Is a pool of blood that’s not yours.

..
We call it a Requiem,
But it’s not anything so…
Musical.
.
Do not sing for us, you who
Still have souls to lose, for
Our fate is undecided, but decidedly
.
Neither rest, nor eternal, having
Neither repose, nor purpose;
A celebration of neither life well lived,
.
Nor death well earned.

.
.
.
.
.

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~ by oberon the fool on March 10, 2014.

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