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Sitting alone, torn pages on the ground

And perfect silence.


But silence isn't perfect, the pages drew blood

And music brings forth tears, unwanted.


Motionless people fit into their world and

Never look beneath their feet to see your sorrow


Red in their black world, blank canvas.

You stand out too sharply, altered.


Not uniform they send perfection to

Erase your red, not looking to see YOU


They move about in peace- Pieces of a life they

Could have lived, you did.


Spindly vines, held down you cannot

Call out to them. See me.


Tainted. You must be to encroach on such

A perfect silent place. Virus.


But not destroyed you endure without

Choice, a lonely spot of red.


Nothing changed, but your spark

Pinched away- gone.

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