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*a black heart drowning in euphoria*

Strained Epoch

Not Quite King But Still

Strained, stranded, strained epoch.
In my moors you were a monarch.
I chose my gardens
And wept for shoots scattered lost in unwilling population…
Magnificence was stripped off me.
I was skinned off my sweetness
My beautiful woes and sorrows, no longer succulent.
Devoid of sympathy
Sugar-coating with apathy.
I gave myself away to the world…
Their selfies and definitions (so sickening)
Based on owned technologies exalted in false worth.
Lost to genius…
Clouds transformed into mere storage
For our mental waste
Corpses from emotional tragedies…
Violence spreading
From keys without notes, beginning.
Blindly connoting,
While the real world and word go missing…
I choose you in another world and life.

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