Unpublished pieces

The stain on the mind 
was the same colour 
as the reactive faces that paraded 
around the motionless mud. 
Creating labels that might 
apply and be used to 
define the bloated sky. 
Waking up, the deer fled the scene 
of the crime. 
Forgetting that death was part of life, 
part of being, 
part of us. 
In reviewing the end we all agreed 
the beginning was useless. 
It has only become a repetition 
of the same old song, 
same old mosaic, 
of naked men 
playing with 
A souvenir of another time when 
gladiators marched triumphantly 
across the mind set 
We were dreaming of chocolate ice cream 
laced with arsenic that we would 
devour with glee. 
Knowing we would die. 
Knowing we would die. 
Knowing we would die. 
We created lines to cross and refused 
to annoy the neighbours. 
Preferring to stand strictly naked 
in terms of our own beliefs. 
The sin was the same stain. 

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