I found your brutal heart
With its endless winds of an early winter.
Oh how I hate you
From that September of the fateful year of 2009
To all the Septembers until you and I meet once again Merry
In an otherwise empty and indifferent room
Where there are no score keepers
With their crooked fingers and ever present image
Which as the tombs for everyone not crooked themselves.
If you can own a judge in housing court
For the right price
Or the right position
Then why can’t you own the score keepers as well?
Are our worn souls
Those of us faithful losers
Really worth so much that they can’t be forgotten?
Oh Merry maybe I just should be angry with you
Leaving no letter behind
Or an explanation of why all your tomorrows have been recalled.
Didn’t you know we could have danced
Like children in all our ruins.
Was it just another job?
Then how could it have been so brutal?
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