Suicide On Earth

Running green in our hands, 

Dyed yellow in our eyes, 

A distance of our own ancestral kin,

Half of the distance shared by our people,

Gorging with the flow of our deeds, 

It’s all in the veins of my tongue; 

 

Jailed in bread, 

And caged in den, 

Flourish the grains of an enormous sand,

Urban legends hither no more, 

I weep to no one but nothing on drifting. 

 

I care more to find my job, 

Hick on my shelf of no books, 

Kill this red dread flow of light,

The busy maids in my head won’t do it right,

Because I’m filled with the honor of men of war,

That’s why I face my own demeanor with brush and tomb. 

 

It’s my own autumn green that makes this usher, 

Yet in the stream of mermaids, 

We can only find ourselves in the philosopher’s stone. 

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This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

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