a tremor of intent towards an endless pursuit
left to lay in the sun-drained streets
in the glow of the unflattering light the asphalt has to offer
scattered visibility
the fallacy of direction presented as a well-organized essay
with a harrowed sense of loss
and an under-appreciated, antiquated understanding of imperialism
to deem the world worthy of being rebuilt,
retied, communal, a transcendental concentration,
fascination with socialistic unity, sympathy
a crop of wrinkles effectively allocated
bartered by or with those who hold weakness high
emancipate oneself from an illusory home,
a controversial thought,
a continent full of filth
the start, restart of collective recognition
conformity- or not- consensus- or not-
a ubiquitous feeling melting through our cochleas
straight to the blood stream
straight to the head
indigenous and predetermined by a gentle,
invisible hand served with ill-proof
the Prime Minister of the atmosphere
domesticated with free-flowing etiquette
and a long lasting empathy,
drained from me,
stained me, abandon
in absolute authority
stood, regarding me as subservient,
an underlying cause for all things short of extraordinary
such a wide array of explanations,
shrugged off with skepticism, hesitation, mere observation
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