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When and where does the credence begin?

Flagrant and fragrant, fragments, plotted in my hamlet, of few.

‘Come forth, with sleeplessness’, I say.

Until I can cry the way I intend to.

How convenient it would be to…

fall to the mire.

Diligently kneeling in prayer, whilst in the soil.

What a pious return to,

‘amassing all that we toil.’

A thousand oaks,

one lone pine.

Futility runs through me,

perhaps,

by design.

Boots strapped.

Denim in disarray.

I kiss the rain on my cheeks.

Run my twisted hand over walking stick of defeat.

Thus far,

another day devoted to Pandora’s box.

It would appear that after many arrogant attempts…

Fate cannot be out foxed. 

 

 

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