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The Ones

With the world that it seems to be with graceless falls and dreary plots to endless stories, there seems that nothing is left to believe in but the little ounce of faith that you kept stored away for a rainy day.
Everything in the world that you thought could pull you up from a deep fall is polluted with the dreadful appearance that hides inside their thick black shell. Past blonde hair, a putrid entity burns, longing for the pain that you fear. As the hopeful become the restless, and as the restless become the dead, there’s us, who sit behind with our wit wrapped around our wrists and our hearts stapled to every lamppost on your block. There are the ones with prisoner stamps and coffee stained maps. The ones that wait. The ones who stay, but always have the intuitive to leave. The ones with a compassion so deep, it could bore a hole into air that defies it. Compassion that means nothing in a world of shallow water and selfish air.





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