Such seconds that we rely on
Of this hour glass-like world
Like dead roses
In a forgotten garden
Whose thorns no longer prick
With arid leaves
Shedding black blood
Drip drop,
Dripping
To the stem of life
Pursuing a path of bewilderment
To a bottomless heaven below
With such promising hopes
Under a purple streaked decieving sky
The color of torn plums
With the foulness of disintegration
Based soley on a predicted lifespan
By some bipedal excuse of walking knowledge |
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