King of the Pigs

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King of the Pigs

 

I could choose a lament

To lament each moment,

Day, year, or all the time

Spent pickling in the brine

 

To be as close to a near-rhyme

As a marathon’s finish to the starting line

Just to call myself content

With purpose and not accomplishment

 

But there’s nothing wrong

Letting emptiness sing the song.

There was a siren who slipped in the ocean

When impatience trumped devotion

 

And now sings no more, no commotion

Lures the swine to immolation

And I stand on the beach alone long

Whiles, quiet and almost empty, where I belong.

 

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