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Being
October 8, 2008
Welded hands upon the parchment
Oils running like the unanswered questions
Which my mind which is but a Tyrant
Whom denies to follow rules
Elevation fills the heart
Condensation-swarming blood run
Creation surging fast and cold
Satisfaction fills the heart
Black ink bleeds not so bright
Beauteous tears spill beneath my lashes
Silent contemplations of my being clashes.
© Anonymous
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