slow day, the drops on the wall
so cyclical - and Aristotle once
behind the backs of them all
predetermined the fall
in our heads and our halls
though irate so they seem
some still protest the dream
apparatus in hand
convert proxies to sand
incandescent horizon
of our ozone depletion
scraped the dead off my skin
in the vain of accretion
the post modern of talent
wreaking darkened finesse
colour blind isolation
forgets our loneliness
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you're so good at this, I wish I was this good.
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