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Growth


No, there is nothing poetic –

To draw words onto

The palm of time.

To scratch with your nails

Truth from the lies.

A struggle for oxygen –

Doomed!

Yes, every breath weaves hope

And slips away along the co-ordinate

Without a flash.

In the geometrical chance

It swings, pursues the time

Without a face.

 

Yes, There’s Nothing...

 


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