Everyday it is alive

not willing to be cured
mother and father of a never
found race
at the kitchen's
floor, laced

firm as they can get
touching for a break
in the silence wet,

Trying the cry
as a slippery gun
that tears the whole
and shines
as it would grow
and run

They are not awake -
they rest, flesh longing
to be born

Their chance's passed
but still

Who dares to stare at the hunger's eyes?
Who will?

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