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I could write, I won't,
The wrong faucet is turned on,
I will drought these thoughts.
Fheyra Jun 2020
Streams— relay the slumber
Tributes to— the Waterfall's Sprite.

'Twas when— the compass— Dismantled
As the bedrocks gruel— Distort the ledge,
Confronted by— tidal waves;—
Imbued the Crush— of a Carapace
That let the Visions— Sprout;—
Abandoned— With the Barriers..

So long,— I do not know..

Sights— Times— are enclosing
Onto the lost,— And the Seafloor sinks
Slowly— Diminishing— The Sirens' Call..
It's just so strange not to remember anything.

— The End —