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Torrid.

Clementine portraits.

Bleach blond horse manes.

An epitaph for our lost leaders?

Or just the gallows? For it is they who are treasonous.

Eco-promises and political paralysis,

Where the strangled successes taste like bitter-sweet molasses.

Will the levee ever break?

Will the swamp ever drain?

Where is our Atlas to hold up our sphere of mistakes?

Or will we simply crumble under the strain?

Chronicling the sieges that our tribes love to wager.

Will the colossal blow give us a silent blissful danger?

Have you ever seen something so serene?

Purged and purified till nothingness is a coherent reality.

A place where beauty and darkness can no longer reside?

It feels so quiet now, like a thick gloopy silence that rings in the ears of a flu ridden child.

The seven deadly sins do not reside here.

Nothing to hope for, nothing to dream of, nothing to fear.

Will this be the fruition of our resistance?

A friction so epic, that the sparks will engulf us whole?

The human life. Ruled by stories. Condemned by nature. Remembered by the few.

They say that free will is the manifestation of the mind.

That oblivion is embedded in to the nucleus of our being.

But where is the freedom from this strife?

The get-out card that gives us liberty and order?

The delicate fingertips of serenity strokes us with their dignity.

But we take pride in our demented cemented cracks.

Where the space is finite and fraught with division.

We are not defined by our struggle, but consumed by it.

The wails are so common now. How do we drown them out?

How do we find peace?

In a land where there is nought.

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