Complete, the way is dark; the sky is wet
They call it night and rain; their words are short
Remembering their sounds, the minds forget
like seperating bullet and report
The pain is fast; the melody is slow
but noone cares when exit holes appear
They call them words that everyone can know
and poetry is formed of all they fear
Complete, the house is empty, nerves contain
the consequence of medecine, the doors
can only open when the minds retain
the shapes of keys and everyone abhors
the words that make all meanings seem complete
and every mind is burned by meaning’s heat.

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