I dry cry because I’m leaving. The pain starts in my mind, trikles down like an extraction of the bone marrow from the depths of my spine.
This is a battle not for the wimp.
“Oh, you need much strength.”
Muster, crumple, gather all your wits.
As one, we will recompense.
Indemnify, those who suffered ill fate.
At the hands of the worst man trait.
What to do when your soul went the wrong way?
Who to call when fatal deception is your fall?
Should we turn around?
Cough up the gold, silver and rust?
Or enjoy the suffication?