This hate like yokes
Does not cook in frying pans
Like egg, rashers, toast.
This cockerel
For all it crows on waking
Speaks of ghosts
A hurt, the misplaced expectation
The surrendering of youth
This hate like stocks at sunrise.
The hate like stocks and yokes
At sunrise is not breakfast.
No sustenance for famished heart.
The ghosts are bottomless
Ravenous, without cessation or satiety.
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