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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...
Friday 11th June 2021 2:49 pm
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