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May 2018
Imaginary people,
riding imaginary lines.
With infinite ends,
and finite time.

Involuntary measures
take place in their lungs.
Locusts burrow deep,
each breath is a hum.

A cadence of cicadas
behind every word.
This truth will save us:
No truth have you heard.
Michael
Written by
Michael  25/M
(25/M)   
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         suzanne, Micrography-Mike D, ---, Fawn, Swastik and 13 others
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