Gripping

Gripping hold of my breath.

Grasping the life that’s left.

Instantly open to a picture of a broken chair.

Quick come quickly to the beasts ghastly lair.

Wow to the world that so easily makes us fumble.

Woe is the death of the homeless stumble.

Let’s chat about craving labour.

Love is what’s left. Not what’s right.

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