hand full of dust

I cannot sing your songs

or

believe

in the words that drone

into chants

that lull us back to sleep

I cannot trust

or hope

envying the wide-eyed glee

fearing it more

loudly

in rhythmic chaos

joy marches toward death

it seems to shout loudly

muffled the sound

of my feet

bare and cold

on the countless blood washed

roads strewn with confetti

walking away

alone

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