Far off, there are flowers that will open once a year
Under the whispering light of a golden moon.
Cherished blooms that are more precious than saintly tears
Know then, that I would hold that gift as ashes or sand compared to
You.
Ideas neatly folded in six inch squares or lying on the grimy floor covered in beer mud and regret.. poetry that inspires a dull throbbing pain in the center of the forehead. circular reasoning and deep insight. My only contact with the outside world. a panopticon.
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