Is It Poetry
Death, a contract
Crushed bones, ground fine nice is her shaker.
My boots find no pleasure walking across, faces by dozen.
Contracts sung in sin I have gained, all fit your eye.
Once long ago in youth your pleasure, was once my pasture.
Over time this pleasure your pasture grew thick, bland to the taste.
Needs by me more, much, much, more.Promise kept and honored.
My shelves grew full quickly, sadly so.
I enjoy excitably inexhaustible rivers of milk, justly so.For one, you, I
would settle for a mere trickle? I sweat that in one gush.
No, you enjoy shallow pleasure, for the time that you have.
Hearing the call of all, I enter, then leave as a clearing dream, the next morning.
With you another fistful of bones, crushed into powder, to flavor my meals, alone.
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