he said sorry.

he had said sorry
so many times,that the word
became a hollowed out
old dead oak tree
that slumped across the plains
of a dusty wheat filled hillside.
his toungue curled away like a snail
that went back
into his shell.
he could not be a man,
as long as the skys pounded
every last breath out of his body.
i know him,
he is an asshole.
he took love and burned it down
and tried to make an airplane
with the ashes.
i told him to stop,
to do away with such
cancerous decisions.
the notions he holds near
are the last true calling card
for any shred of sanity.
he makes noone proud,
he sucks up the precious air.
he will die as we all will,
but those few cranial halloways
that he never dusted,
will take him over the line
and haunt him into the next world.
you are correct in assuming
that the sun frowns on him
every day that he crawls these streets.
you are allowed
to put him back in the box
anytime you like.
copywrite:jeremy szuder


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