The thing I withered for is too wild for me. I lost myself in amazement of glee and turmoil I wear close to my chest. When I feel distressed, I take a sip from the cup and wish for little luck to find a person to relate to, though I don’t relate to me.  I see that I have potential to be friendly that always ends deadly— meaning distant spirits to recollect things I lost dearly. Things I never said and should have to plague me, but they save me from the yet of the feeling of regret.

I always assumed my thoughts are too big for me. I am a sarsen with a happy lie in tune.  I feel dry spells in anger while I Linger to defeat like the smell of a rotting corpse at high noon penetrate the air. I can’t see the stone cracking, but I hear it. I lied to myself again, I am not this strong sarsen of false melodies. These rocks fall like cities overthrown to expose a thing in me I haven’t seen before, that shadow is gone and wiser now.

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