A bouquet of roses in mid blossom, for my souls sins as they rise
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A prayer for my dear departed noble deeds,
Though the thoughts never existed behind these eyes,
I praised, and vowed,
Denounced, and avenged against lips speaking lies—
Within inner confines,
I rock gently, figuring which ratio of the deceit is my own,
Defying my own philosophies,
To numb the truths of my exhorts, because they are harsh to me,
I am a liar,
Come, all who have been blessed with the reality of who I am,
Stomp, smother, and pour water upon my funeral pyre—
Once the eulogy is unfolded on the podium,
Every mourner, hopefully a widow, and a few children left behind,
Shall not speak of the odium will suppress and not fathom,
And if after life, a consciousness supersedes death,
I would be a fool not to bask in their gratitude—
Taking sips of narcissistic wine,
Despising that I am enjoying the falsehoods my integrity contrived.
I am a kick in the head, boot damaging the mind, erasing a conscience.
A bouquet of…
Things that are done can be undone.