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My fort folded beneath a crumpled pane - a window that envisioned truth, which stretched far beyond all horizons. My mind then forfeited its fathomable fervor. Today, I trample with aching, sun-burned feet along dusty trails of chipped limestone - cowhide sandals ripping from my left heal. Weary, my course has grown without direction. Now, tears soak my salt-sprinkled sash - my soul each day withers upward, skyward. Tomorrow, I shall scream for my copper kettle, one that could collect forgivable, moral sins.
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1/27/2021 2:29:18 AM # 1.0.0.442