Alexander Michael Ziperovich


The baby boy he always whined he got hit in the soul 91 times and

he cried and wailed but to no avail and punished everything for the others that failed


Like a beautiful flower that blooms and is ripped from the soil, there is organic servitude

and to the violence you shall remain loyal, lest you enact a plan made up to be foiled


Toys for the child, all of them broken but beauty inside, antiques smiling dying for pride

a metal flower, he bled from his arm he used to raise up, like animals for their hide


Now the child, the child is broken and messy, hate in his infantile heart asking for someone or something to catch me, put me back together and either rest me or bless me


Because blessings and warmth, this child now the man that writes, he has imagined he has exposure and that he can just keep on the fight, but that is until one single night in April, the wind is howling and so his soul, he keeps playing with toys until one grows him too old and like a game of cards he folds and turns cold


His father the healer, a demented killer in his twisted experience, brings him back from the grave, inches away, he pounded on his heart, performed Cee Phree Art and the boy breathed again, air that was gone to him, stolen forever by angry gems with mangled intentions


The boy with blond hair and blue eyes as the ocean was run over by broken roller coasters hot and molten, his arms like rocks in the rubble, useless for poking, knowing this couldn’t last forever because now I am broken, like leaves from a tree falling gently, time passes and eventually you must choose your destiny and this time it is not mere stupidity and wreckage please


Nothing is over, no not yet, the war has turned but the winds of war are nothing to forget because they will turn you into a monster spraying blood and wine and make you forget that one single time where everything changed and you were crying out like a child that stepped on a mine


But the child has become promoted to General and he has his stripes and he has paid his dues in battle like know one knew he could handle and he has survived the ugliest torture, and the worst kind of travel to the darkest places where things hiss and they rattle


He owns the world and he can stand on clouds, he could stand with God and make God proud, all he has left to do is get rid of his black cloud and his black cloud is his shield in war so it will be difficult to rid himself of this burdensome bore but he shall complete his assigned duties lest he forget the night his father cried out over the cruelty of his child losing his beauty

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