“Don’t make this fake, Last second of life”-Sparta
Goons are sacrificed, due diligence to spaces exposing bleed letting,
Mirrors stationed as substitutes for ceiling tiles, documentation held to its occurrence, (the Devil is in the details).
Age defined by the length a person travels.
Stay-put civilians would grope the inches at 200 years, striving for suicide, to make it a little bit further.
Globe trotters accomplish a quick death, but witness Babylon’s flowers, competing for headspace against the cross-eyed observers, researching which colors compliment solitude.
Vacation proposes a known final sunset.
What would such sentiments bring?
Language follows the trends made by human experience.
Learning only by footsteps taken to the kitchen, bathroom and back to bed.
Lethargic doers would speak of well-traveled martyrs,
Citing their toe blisters as testaments of benevolent intervention.
Exiting the plane, examining the list of must see, rot sets and cataracts drapes a white lens,
Hustling to make the final seconds meaningful.
At the fountain, pocket length ideas, tossing the heads of leaders, no expression
Besides the one given to them and they sparkle underneath the sun, outside of their Coffin.
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