We are walking massacres,
Wading a sea of assassinated hours,
Slain unremembered, for no discernible
reasons.
Whim, fancy, and animal instinct
Aren't really made for mourning.
Then, there are the hours spend on
secret passions,
Misunderstood as more masochistic
murder
Of little pieces of our own lives.
I would not trade those hours for
anything.
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