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What flourishes,
in a painting,
illustrated
flawlessly
left
to dust
in an attic?
I don't refuse
my sins,
I see the fog,
but my
body
goes
through
the simmer
before
the fire
of
weightlessly,
I have scars,
I don't deny,
I'm not
but trying
to be
sincere.
Not
faultless,
I see
the mafia
flashing
cameras
for
they control
this part
of town.

My old bones,
need a reset,
and calcium
or protein
drinks,
are not
the answer,
dying demons,
will answer
to business
corrupt deals.

Its no less
sadder
than
the
beating
of seals.
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