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exoskeleton

Lest the Emperor meet its end,
make the Mother crawl
instead, make her cook
her language until charred with
black dogma. This game
of corruptible wax called Freedom
molded within mad, righteous thought.
The Big Scream
heard in the hard sleep of
sharpening fright.
A coat of ache like the
exoskeleton of some
fat and frantic insect
lashing its tongue against
yesterday's grey fog;
its tombstone, cold
and fake, the epitaph
a lie.
Written by RByron418 (R Byron Johnson)
Published
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