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POEM: Neon

The lights of the exit signs you have snuffed out; their neon reassurance eroded to extinction.
All but two found freedom before the darkness came.
And here we are, a rock and a sad place.

Your sharpened claws and ammunition stores.
Your treacherous trophies from games with biased scores.
All is cold, and I hear you growling.

You have much to growl about, wolf of the wilderness, starved of all my hate, cast out beyond the garden gate.

Why have I not fled this imminent horror, this onslaught of apoplexy?
Why aren’t I prostrate bowed, cap in hand, begging for your merciful hand?

There is no light, but there is truth, which doesn’t even fucking mention you.
And this truth is mine, my lungs, my mind; my velodrome in the bastard sky.

No new scars are to be carved in this silhouetteless place.
I am here.

I was born, and you were made, from dog shit soil on satan’s grave.
I need no lights for this night fight, this stadium of darkness seals me.

In truth is where your weakness shines, brighter than any neon sign, now stark upon your filthy spine.

You look smaller than before.
Now, out you go.

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  1. Pingback: POEM: Neon By Alex Willmott – 14th October 2016 – pmcdiary

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