This Routine is Hell
shiver
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Blood runs through the offices and fireâs what we breathe.
We write the poetry of the dead with every word we type.
Remarks are made.
Heads turn away.
They prefer to stay.
Behind gritted teeth our lies take shape.
Fed by a festering hate, they procreate.
Youâll shiver at what youâll find inside.
Disgusted, thereâs nothing left inside.
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- Howl