MOS: Erriapus

When we know little more than a name
wasting away in red
a free moment that glasses over the moon in repose.

I am silent in the bog.
Watching. There is a hope
of limousines and remorse.

Broken rings break constantly.

We come home from the past
seeking abuse of the horn
I am whipped again.

The leather is the bringer.

Frayed among the lashes.

I await,
having nothing to say.

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