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Dying piece by piece, I feel the exterior
Of my ideals peeling themselves away -
A guttural growl rises from the pit of a throat
Fingers stuck in the teeth of a comb -
my emotions melt and i haven't felt
this odd in decades, -
the moon is a thumbtack, holding the sky up
like a poster plastered on the curving vastness of space, -
Convulsing, we swallow
Our poisonous ardor,
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