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Cannisters

I find more poetry in silence.

Anger, sadness, joy, fear.
To convey these is to tease you
out of your dearest emotions.

The Hooded Clerics of Old seldom speak of it
you won't find it in poetry, in prose.
It's found sprawled across a sidewalk
covered in shattered glass, vomit and spit
it emits grog.

It sits, decaying in the streets of Los Angeles
dying of diseases, deprived of its poisonous addictions.
It lays in a coffin, six feet deep.
It rests in submerged wreckages of the pacific.
It fed the greens of France,
nutrients belonging to warriors of old.

You, what gives you the means to speak?
Stand foremost.
Speak, seldom - if ever.

Illustrously shining
the silver platter to your humanity.
Take it back and finish it.

Even the hardest of Men hold it back.
Take pursuit in sacrifice,
destroy life.
create life.
Kill
and be killed.

I belong to the Dead.
Written by AscensionES (Aptilneilrionaltion)
Published
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