the blood that bines our hallowed minds,
springs forth from our tattered lives
we sink below shuddering,
lost in a myraid of labryinths
too elaborate to behold
we search but cannot find
the radicals of strife
which once held our eye
modus becomes our prime
as children merrily refuse
the apotheosis of their divinity
resting tacitly in their
yolk of apathetic stagnance,
languishing in rot
















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