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The State is stitched into itself, crocheted by two hooks of its own creation into a multiform mirage; man obeyed his design --- he flirts with devastation. Despite the deathly brinks, he continues on, blinded by an insatiable desire. In West California, sprawled on a lawn, a boy laughs at his power over fire; cross-legged monks in Sansara's clasp sit in bare caves while snows rage outside: they boy's enamored with all he can clasp, the monks yawn, meditate: endlessly they've died.
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Sep 29, 2012
Sep 29, 2012 at 2:35 PM UTC
Poem Found Whilst Cleaning My Room
The State is stitched into itself, crocheted by two hooks of its own creation into a multiform mirage; man obeyed his design --- he flirts with devastation. Despite the deathly brinks, he continues on, blinded by an insatiable desire. In West California, sprawled on a lawn, a boy laughs at his power over fire; cross-legged monks in Sansara's clasp sit in bare caves while snows rage outside: they boy's enamored with all he can clasp, the monks yawn, meditate: endlessly they've died.
christopher-howard-gorrie
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Sep 29, 2012
Sep 29, 2012 at 2:35 PM UTC
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