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Bloom

in rivers of right they spawn

eggs already torn and bent

that grow deprived of dawn

to salve and heal their rent

 

and battered by a rusty flail

to a state not unlike trance

a polka spinning them pale

to a hapless agony of dance

 

chalking symbols onto slate

a scratch makes evil mute,

silent observances of hate

doomed flora lacking root

 

sometimes they...

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