it? Sometimes repetition, not damaged
yeah, writhing here – oh let it be hopeful
to hold now in necessity, so mysterious
feelings just churning, bouncing, blatant
all of this now suddenly ending
into our Fircrow, the rotting Sean, oh
trapped & splintering. We wave around or
written
the pleasures still droning we call, we happen
all events explained? Somehow dappled, or
in a huddle, just silence comes, clear, cold
at this unfigurable as these stallions
their play some other pleasure
all sufficient to taste or stain the dark
yet, yes, the despite may hold, can shut in
remembrance in a wound, a valley, some world
there’d be silence & shrivelling. Nothing
explains here you
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