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Heaps of ashes, still smoldering,
Smelling of a flawed soul.
Such an intense fascination,
Forged, fickle, foretelling,
Every inch of an aura erect in its brilliance,
Disturbing, boring, infantile, ill-tempered.
I describe a harrowed existence.
Such desolate gloom and ominous intentions,
Enveloped in the pain of never knowing.
Relentless, I am plain,
average, common, ordinary.
My thoughts of rage and surrealism are vain and obscure.
Thoughts of sadness implore.