Brothers in the Underworld
Each night, if we were tired or not,
Our father sent us at an early hour
To bed, my golden brother, I, and bars upon our glass.
My troubled soul was quieted by pipes my brother played,
And daytime was our kingdom for our quests
Of art and glory, riches, fame, and crime.
At nights my father robbed us of our sleep,
Our minds, our time, and I knw him
For what I am: and so I searched
To discover myself, to open the box
on my reality, but every open box
means a death.
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