We’re all going to die,
So pull up a chair
And pick your poison.
Murder is self-made.
The rats run in circles
On torture wheels
That rotate in hate.
The struggle is real.
Open wounds bleed
Into the chalice,
The Holy Grail divine.
The blood is the life.
We’re all going to die,
So pull up a chair
And tune in to the show.
People love to watch.
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Author:
Tristan Robert Lange (
Offline) - Published: January 14th, 2018 22:44
- Comment from author about the poem: This is not to be taken literally, as some are apt to do; rather, this is metaphorcal. I’ll let the reader interpret from there.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 9
Offline)
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