Here I place my words
Aching to my bones And No Matter how I push All they do is moan. Moan as shuddering wood Bending; warped by the strain Too many thoughts in the attic Flinching under the pain The pain of loss without gain. Swords of Symphony Cut a Feverish Fantasy A hereditary, primordial Soup Inherent altruism wrapping A tap, tap, trapping An epithet to a recluse.
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Portugal. The Bard.I shout to the void, Archives
January 2022
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