rust was blood

[More Moroccan misery. Seriously, what got into me? If anyone else has found Moroccan coach trips make them write depressing poetry, please get in touch.]

What is this
lush green life
there is no place
for you here
We are heat
and dry oh so
dry death
wearing away
resistance
the soul we
are the soulless
place where
life cannot be
Be gone green
devil we do not
need your life
here we were
fine with dust
and death and
aching slumber

Life is too loud
We strangle you
And sleep again

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