live a little longer
let dying come slow
and never go down
by the river
the wind still reeks
of the blood that flows
the flowers all have
withered
i forget the names
there have been so many
that never came back
from the river
his, they scream
as their lives are taken
but he calls himself
the Giver
eventually they come
spirits from the woods
their heads and limbs
in the river
their torsos rot
without a grave
mounds of flesh just
withered
on the longest nights
his laughter haunts
and we hide in this city
by the river
praying a little longer
that dying will come slow
and our lives are never taken
by the Giver
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