HOUR SEVEN: ANGST

Do you remember, or did you forget
Left those years free, did not look back
When the mornings were slugs, our bodies grotesque,
expanding more than they could ever contract
Each high, each low a moment long
Each joy flimsy, a shallow breath
Resonating with every raucous song
Entranced by the singers, thinking death
Dyeing our hair black or wishing we had
Dying to get out, while living with dread
Dyeing our clothes an acid tone
Dying to the decade we first called home

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