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Burnt Cities
There’s dirt on your back and blood in your mouth.
You still dream of burning cities to the ground.
Your hands are only bone which is porous and brittle,
Like ash; like coal.
Burnt broken things, you cannot lay them down.
And you still dream of burning cities to the ground.
The burdens on your soul are cruelly inflamed,
Sporadic in nature but not in name.
Passion drives you from this disagreeable town.
And you still dream of burning cities to the ground.
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