Frost Bitten are the Sun Burnt Castaways

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Frost bitten are the sunburnt castaways
that wash ashore, drunk in delirium,
anemic in eclectic mind and body,
all atop a paddle boat, broken to the bone,
eroded by waves of driving wind and water.

Frost bitten are the sunburnt castaways
that devote themselves to entropy,
green land of tropical terrors,
fallen frozen to poison, venom,
vehement in their curling blood-flow.

Frost bitten are the sunburnt castaways
that juggle a harmless chainsaw and knife,
the sound of undone duties ringing about
with abiding bells flashing them forward,
to the next cold seat, to the next cold desk.

Frost bitten are the sunburnt castaways
that bask in steady convolution,
mummified in mayhem of ideals
and creeping coercion, unending constraints,
only arisen by the spell of awareness.

Frost bitten are the sunburnt castaways
that bleed an SOS, brushed away by gusts,
glorified and vilified all upon a number.
Castaways that sit in a warm sky,
slowly fading into a climbing shade.

Frost bitten are the sunburnt castaways
that peer upon a setting star in blindness,
soaking in the madness of yesterday,
fermented freedom of sunrise, sunset,
fleeting in finalities of day, of night.





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