The real death begins with cowardice, when we freeze
morale blue eyes
and began to fear that our nickname
will turn and bite give us shade,
leaving marks on the front that recognize
Cain and his acolytes.
The real death begins when
fingers to open the gap, and let syrup
us like children, like frightened children
the stories they themselves have told the hearing
of their darkest desires.
True death,
the death of cowards, it sucks.
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