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You try to turn her on
to the wind.
But your corridor is
killed by the window.
Oh, Oh.
And dream of chiseling her
geologically timed-less moment.
To see rare gems
hopefully refract light.
Deserted to the pleasure
of her soulmate's astride.
She is in through outer course.
Loved through windows first.
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Maybe God will share his grief with me.
He is not he.
Not in the sky.
Not hiding in the trees.
In the shape, of shapes.
In a shape, and cannot escape.
We do not want to die.
Is not that obvious?
Shock and awe. Ha ha.
The day that we died
through never endings.