Where are those dark Sundays where the skin
Of those giants fade into a rustic hue from
The summer sun? Their sister in this
Place must feel so stagnant and sick
In such a desperate tropical hospital.
In the middle they die from middle to end.
It's something to aspire to, being so comfortable
With crumbling egos and knowing too well
The silver edges turning skin to mulch.
Boys and girls will play with their body parts
Until fathers set fire, giving off a scent to
Remember them by. Some will go to hell
Before they can die, while those that were
Patient will find the new life they have won.
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