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Flower of The Ages

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Flower of the ages
Enlightened in fierce flames
The power of dreams swept into a rosebud
Metaphor becomes a requiem for the already enlightened
Shining fiercely for the select few
Part of the intellectual bourgeois I lie in a snow-covered field
Understanding the warmth, but unable to touch it
Sin awaits me, as a warm summer breeze melts the snow off my body
Only for it to fall again
My spring never comes
It ceases to love
To live
I breathe
And it means nothing
Stinted by hope
And reeking of depravity
When will the ages come
And cease to be a figment of my imagination
Where blooms this flower?
And what man holds the power?



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