The breathe she exhales brings it all into full circle

The wheels of this dysfunction turn round and round

A false lotto drawing filled with less future

There is no relief in what’s to come.

It is laced in burden.

Saturated in the inevitable.

Prayer serves as a calming balm unto a hurt spirit.

You cannot teach the old dog new tricks; for rolling over is all it ever knew.

Rocks break from stubbornness.

Ideas transform into rage form into words,

that hold the weight of predecessors that never knew what cycles were.

Accepting that to go forward is to fight a war that has no soldiers in it.

Queens can also become leaders to uninhabited kingdoms.

Desolation is served in a bottle labeled barren.

Drinking till drunk to a disillusion of justified righteousness.

Never chasing each swig with change


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