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No.
The lips lock
And won't budge.

Cries of men
From the grimy depths of the trash
Rise with loud flames burning tall.
Tears ball up in the eyes of the multicolored soldiers
And their gray oppressors alike who
Spit and ****.
Tears, blood, and mascara wash the New York streets
Clean.

A fresh painted face for the queen

Let's sit in Christopher's patch of grass,
So these matchstick moments that burn briefly
Can rest among us.
We'll carry them back into battle tonight
On our backs
As Diana's drum beats a smooth rhythm.

Never before has the color of stone been so radiant
As when the soldiers file out of their stone homes
To behold that colorfully calloused street.

In Grecian fashion,
The openly wild fighters pull capotes
Over their decorated uniforms
And charge.

Through the noise and through the pain,
Soft embers from the fiery battle
Float above the city.
Winds lift these delicate remains toward Heaven
Where defeated warriors like Cannon and Ulrichs
Feel the familiar consistency of these blacked bits between their fingers.
They smile and celebrate.

Finally, the bodies of men begin to wan
And topple.
Of those still standing,
Only some hold their heads high.

The victory fell upon our colorful
And tested soldiers.

Their enemies were left grimaced and gasping
On their knees begging for mercy
At the hands of those brave and beaten
Multicolored defenders.  

Afraid to be burned again, the powers of gray returned
To where their world made sense
In books and sermons.

The heroes moved on
To the next street.

No,
No more.
We were both running
But when we were together
It didn't feel like running at all

Your lips
Stained mine
With a taste
Both bitter
And beautiful
That I can't kiss away

After you
I could understand
Why the poets share their words
Why music can bring me to tears
Why I wake up hopeful

In the deepest silence
My heart started to beat to new
Music
Music composed by the love you gave me

I am forever in those moments
We shared

I loved you
I thank you

— The End —