The Funeral Part 2 – Plight of the Bear

The world lost something rare,
while the ways of most are
meager and frail, the sadness of
seldom few whose fires burned
too bright are fed upon by the
bear’s revolving lies.
Hearing the wine in his voice –
the viceroy’s vises – a vial of disgust –
he strikes me suddenly with searing
worthless words I can’t recant.
The only saving grace:
the curse of the king of lies:
his words are but vomit
forever heaped upon himself
unto death.
Let not the loved turn
in their rest.


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