Roumers

Where survival serves the fittest, and the law is the wind

the morbidly winged work for acquisition of wins.

Tattered!! Hides torn, so wiery, so lame

yet undeterred from detest intent on playing the game.

Roaring flames, the fiery pride stalks,

anger accumulates in knowledge deprived talk,

sharp whispers swarm around to whittle the mane

that sustained a cool air when temperaments changed.

Eye (I) stick to the bone, with the marrow of truth

gnawing for facts collapsed by creative abuse.

Eexempt from the tempest so tempted by tongue

with pride, I peruse till every guise is undone.

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