Bloody Wines

What does not kill me makes me older;

The cheap luxury I enjoy in not proving myself wrong.

I really hope you think I’m dense.

 

My skin is cured: only one day will it moulder;

The daily life, its feeble warriors, never battles long.

What does not kill me makes me older.

 

My countless words, always, lessen from your beholder

That responds to me with less than three, ambivalent like a song.

I really hope you think I’m dense.

 

My eyes saw death, once: it was a car, his world was over

The swans live out their anthems, in hopes they will prolong

What does not kill me makes me older.

 

My dreams are simple, my needs are basic; as an icey shoulder.

The day will come when we mean nothing; the day will not feel wrong.

I really hope you think I’m dense.

 

The nicotines, the ethanols: your culture weights, your tensive smolder.

Daily life should be so simple: my uncanny taste, my banal flaws, foreverlong.

What does not kill me makes me older.

I really hope you think I’m dense.

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