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cry-synthemum

I wonder if I was born as a chry'santhemum destined to be crushed mercilessly on the stampeded gravel. Smothered and Sun dried in yellows of madness and unkindness,  hurled and smeared in the most quiet corners of the dark closet. Blooming blandly, wilting in. Forgotten defaced. Surfacing to breathe and blossom unnoticibly with blatant resilience. I must give up to my fate undelibly engraved in the palms of communion. But I must give up today to the harrowing foccult's freedom of madness, submitting to the named scorching sun of my existence. farewell shreds of self. Until we meet.  

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