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A certain hollowness in my heart, But a mind succumb to my fateOf which is no known art, As I feel Ive lost my place.

But an utterance of a sound, A mind infested with nothing. This is not the first of rounds Trying to complicate a something

A figure of nonentity Despite sickly sweet words. What is left of me? My speech becomes slurred.

Uncomplacent of my own works, Pausing a rested hand. At night the familiar lurks As I question the prophesized land| -a.p.

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