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TortoisesOut the shell the neck' so thin
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that breaking would not be an evil
act, but mercy by a gesture friendly
as if betwixt a thumb and finger,
the slowly push of fiends together,
mashed into a creamy mixture.
They say not ready we begin:
our filling too soft, and so raw
if squeezed would leak.
But if atrocities they do not know,
then No. They will retract back into
their tortoise-shell and speak stay.
As night-time comes and lingers
day sustains in a denial's frozen-stasis,
for us, also she says, for us, with them.
Must always we be far-damn-right,
with our marches, parties, propagandic-prides,
as if once-again we cannot trust
that voice inner, that whisper calmly.
All that we've done repeats and repeatedly
admits us through.
Out of the shell the neck is so thin
that to break it would not be an evil act
but the mercy of a friendly gesture,
as if holding it between a thumb and a finger
and slowly push the two together,
mashing it into a beautiful mixture.