MOURNING
The world is a gorge, it only goes so
far and then breaks, as it drops. And
they dispatch the mourning ladies to
come over and wail, to console those
left and who talk now in riddles. Those
weak in faith will falter and fall back,
they'll land like a curtain in their puddle
of blue lace. And the light will keep
shining as the temperatures rise and
more ladies come to scream and pray.
And I rise up, as if to say : 'when does
this actually end? This is so New
Orleans now, let me go.
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