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Lament of the Forlorn

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I am a casket made to hold the living.

The ground breathes with uncertainty.
I pity the dead unable to see the beauty
of a beating cemetary circuitry.
maybe I'm just as nonexistant.
For a shrill laugh left alone is just as buried
as my empty skin, blemished by every unknown.

I wish flowers were left for the abscence of death.

I wonder,
when the wind rings,
will anyone run for me?




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