With dying broken

 But I just want to see the morning. In his shiny new suit. With dying broken. Trained, taught to obey. Death that lives to blows. Hitting someone else's pain (our own). Of the pain that dislodges the flesh. And nothing and nothing. And no place. And not even so. Death: fragment of the universe. Although a thousand times it broke. His mirror was breaking. And return death to us in a thousand pieces. Now still. Often and fleeting.

Random Intratextuality