Twiddling thumbs,
itching fingers,
thinking of
these thought
malingerers;
seeing those eyes
everywhere
and darkness
baiting,
deep despair;
playing games
with torn cards -
the folds reveal
their bleeding hearts;
noises, noises
in the sky -
celebrations.
Way up high;
down below
we never grow:
we only abide
by forlorn spells,
indulge ourselves
in tolling bells
and in our actions,
never one to chide,
we've satisfaction
that blank artifice
has died;
somewhere
there
within my night
she's lurking like
a tiger bright.
And all that's left
for me, for me
now
is a revelry
in its still
howl.
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