by Mr. Grayskull
hanging from the figtree
a dying body in
convulsion
pours sour wine and
sweet piss
at his feet no sign of
blood stained silver coins
a total amount of thirty they say
but on his face
a thirsty expression resembling
a smile
of eternal bliss
I had a poem to say just before swallowing my own tongue it slithered down my throat and nested in the left lung now a snake sleeps there h...
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