All Flowing

November 29, 2011
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Born, shotgun in hand

Crimson, accustomed, so bland

Such misery, a sight to behold
alms stained, alone in the cold

On occasion, fault departs unto my own

Yet, most often, fate turns from me, so prone

Malady in a tone still unknown

Separate the tool of consequence

None such as benign as in ascendance

Contemplate the social psychosis

Push away from the omnipotent, overseen

And… Wither to join the unseen

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