The Stars Grow Sallow…

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Synthesize,
the cacophonous grove
of mellow,
mellow,
enticement.
Awkward calligraphy
dots the sigh, the wail, the melody.
Could it be the tremors in my
savage throat that leave me
irrevocably industrious?
My resentful fatigue accuses
the prosperity,
the community,
the generalization,
myself.





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