Analogue time draws a tired circle
Around a prick in the pale white stuff.
Too much! Too much! The people cry.
Too much of what? Of this? Of That?
No chance to grow, not big and fat.
Instead with friend or foe I’ll die.
I hope my end, it won’t be rough;
I’ll live, survive, with this, my miracle.
Author notes
Wanted to try a random rhyming scheme A-B-C-D-D-C-B-A
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