A man without a company nor an allegiance to the thought of country
constant slow treadmill suicide
through catacombs of the aging whore’s city
what needed to be seen was shown through cracked lights towards home
filtered
from thoughts always known
the truth is only as ugly the painter’s color palette
imprint the number value here
We came from better origins not equations
refusal to speak in math
it is not the language of the streets or heart
my first language was anger,gone the road with Latin
you hear what he’s saying?

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