Life
through
the eyes of misery
is a bit
too poetic.

The grandeur of glory
and rambling cries
with bleeding boots
marching on the field
and a bullet to pierce the frontal lobe.

The heightened passion
reaching for a climax
between flesh and cloth
of rhythmic breath
and lubrication by male ejaculation.

To portray the dazzling canines
of a baby with delicacy
and the forlorn gaze
that watch over the birth,
the placenta peeling off the uterus.

The toe-curling death and
with an explosion of laughter.

Life is a bit too poetic.
But perhaps,
an unpoetic life
is no life at all.

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