those of my friends
who whimper at stars
and turn to their clock
when I cry,
have not found the size
of this life.
their elbow's are crusty
and they eat with fork's,
reaching for the grace of god
in the touch of silver.
they are still drinking milk
and think my company
an advantage or high score
in the hopes that their
sour and fowl
thoughts,
refreshed.
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