I accept the charges,

charged in servitude,

at the cost of spirit and sanity,

they charge,

like credit cards sans limit,

no regret to march,

yelling at the top of your lungs,




bile and vitriol,

spewing all over the oppressed,

the oppressed,

gears in your Grandfather clock,

to be adjusted and replaced,

till the wheels fall off!

fall off!

beaten and bloody,

not another Sunday,

I walk away,

pouring salt in as I flee,

acrimoniously wounded,

it feels free,

as lightning strikes grudgingly…


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