There is a time to see the stain
beneath all that was unsaid,
but first to savour that
which made the mess.
To sleep atop the bled
and dying bed,
so breathe the calm of ages.
There is a season to taste
a palette of varying rages,
to glut so righteously.
I say, let it go to waste.
but rather hunger so peacefully.
There are wars fought quietly,
inside,

so that the devils
have somewhere to hide.

01/11/2013

Posted on 01/11/2013
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