Lies on the tablecloth,
but my mind, like that stupid moth...
deserted passages, hollow dreams,
silent feelings, terrible screams.
And somewhere in that brain,
those blurred images remain;
damaged shells instill fear,
swollen eyes and dried tears.
And as the night gradually falls,
you can't tell skulls from cannonballs...
mesmerised by serene dust,
victims of bloodlust.
Femurs peeping out of shins,
whoever loses, whoever wins;
strange hands close the eyes,
dreaded echoes reach the skies.
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