A stained red checkered shirt

Gutting through the forest

Maddened on hands of meager might

Convinced by a belt buckle badge


Raised on the howls of hollow hills

He trudging into the abyss

As their echos rang through his ears

A weary soul in silence, now forsaken


On a purpose, he knows not of

As billowing bountiful birds afar

Swarm in their songs of serenity

He sees through sighs from slipshod splitters,


Not of the calm forthcoming

For his ears are dampened,

by the worthless whistles of diseased dedication

Everywhere still though, titan towers of temperament

Climb ever closer to their inevitable radiance

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