The regin of mine
Beginning in the womb of a soul pure
Continuing in the heart of a child confused.
The war started when ideas of castels in the sky
mansions on the moon
and fast cars on water distilled into his head.
How quaint.
How nice.
How nice, his sculptures in the sand.
The years pass by each day, each day an exercise in wrecking balls.
The castels crumble. The cars sink in the waters. Midnight on the moon turns a cold scrappy brown.
Brown like the skin he cuts into pretty pictures. Sleepless. Brown like the eyes filled and swollen red.
He, and I, look in the mirror. Each day, each morning, midnight and afternoon.
He tries to stare down conquest. Blinkin uncontrollably.
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