 | Bring the Band
by Gregory Wilde  /  poetry  /  27 Sep 2007
I'm sick, Cybill. I can't move my legs, The music in the parlour, Won't stop crying, Nothing is stopping, Me from ending time.
I'm dying there, And it's not a crime, I've seen enough, Already gone, Cybill. I've stopped lying, They don't want me here.
Last one, Cybill, Before I go and bleed, It's not dark yet, I can almost see, All our children, In sleep.
I've lost the sense, To remember my prayers, For when you where here, I'm going, going, gone, & to the men w/out women, It's a sin to love no one.
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