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I'm the sweet orb of August,
firm and plump and glowing orange and red...
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I used to
believe in illusion...
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I stargaze as
a strawberry crescent bouquet...
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I find her -
a heart of wild flowers...
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I am a modern sonnet,
penned by a modern punk...
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Evermore,
she rests her head tenderly...
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This river reeks of shameful impurities -
stretching; contorting snake strangles land...
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Allow me to re-state:
Perhaps fate is a calculated fable...
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They questioned my sanity
for I feared not...
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You were always the desire to engulf another,
from a billion murky years ago, when...
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The day mourned as if every tree base
was a rueful cry that became softened...
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Be it childish scribbling
Crafted, stylized or mere black ink...