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the city does not end

on a night like this

stillness nibbles at the nippy stench

from men without tongues

inside of unmarked graves 

slam a door down the throats

of greedy loiters from frustrated prostitutes


whispers from gloomy cars pass the time

i make my own glory in this solitary hour

on this bed and in your frail sweaty arms

i am the smell of warm colours that glow

the long night of mutinies

i am the wood that burns its history in this siren forest

and i am still here, you too

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