/lit/ - Literature

Of a dying ox
Or maybe it was a sheep
A long sip of an unending bowl
That they could see from anywhere
A fire that was told it was wild and explosive
That was the marvel
That was the goal
As unreachable as sadness
And untouchable as happiness
It was begged for and cried over
Pitiless tears, they ran through dirty hands
The same two hands shared by all
Though some a little
Till waters this high came and swept them in the undertow
A man cries a lot at once and he dries up
Some weep endlessly in this room they made
Built with the same two hands many used
And they bite each other's arms
And they were beaten and ravaged
And by the time it was all understood they were swept away
By waters this high
Compassion could be understood if it were not for
Oxen or sheep or tears or hands
What's this language
There's binary and texture and knowledge and all of this filth we get
A night now lives less than the god that is raised
And razed would it be if otherwise
Rays of hope could glitter if not for the bitter bread that was eaten to garnish hunger
It was never ended for you or any of these people
How regretful
And so the bitterness grew
In a regretful manner, sir
In a regretful way, sir
In a regretful heart, sir
In a torn sea
With waters that came up this high
Nobody knew where it came from
Years had passed and nobody noticed
A pauper could have came in by the door
And nobody would have known
Nobody would have known better what to do if that happened
And now they only weep bitterly over and over again
But never once did they dry up
And all they had left were two hands