Meet your enemy’s slinking eye

The sun that sweet spot, and I
   remark, the sun that polyglot
witness all races dimmed before,
   it flees like old age
only toward you, and poor rage
   never purchased its halt,
though lame we are to glares
   it labors with in violence
to meek little factory workers
   from its abuses hidden,
we don’t mutate for it, instead
   it drifts to us already dead.

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~ by Jeremy on May 25, 2012.

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