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The Nest

The dregs of a hammock shook, a precarious pile of rusted utensils fell cascading, unwarranted, into a tumultuous dis chord. The trees shook and the raft boarded at the verge of the thunderous shore- rattled. Just another tremulous murmur. Another tremor. Repulsive of its inhabitant’s deeds.

And then followed a long episode of blackening silence. Like a hollow casket or the labyrinth of one’s ear. Lost in its own magnanimity. Piercing, penetrating silence like a thorn latched in an ebony skin.

It was as if this peninsula had all the hope of music famished like its deserters. Nothing but a nest of lies and broken dreams.                                                                                 – Plath's Kin


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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.