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Magnetic conflict
pulls taut the thread of ardor;
the rope of ecstasy as

echoed in the eyes.
Torn with wear are holey socks,
faded like a yellowed grin
which spark when scraped across an
aged, mellow rug, thin

as a child's kite,
when caught in thunder
renders a man's bite into
blunder, crude mistakes;
toxic entropy.

Blue room angst has escaped
from an anguish-heavy stare
ultimate complications
ensue from dark things,
found in zealous heavens and
naked from such wear.

"I care," said he who
cried out for some empathy
"Just stop," said they, who didn't.



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