Like the sodomite's sneezing farts
Our septic and susurating hearts
Should stop this madness fore it starts
Our soapbox derby racing carts
Like those nights by moonlight general store,
Ablaze in miscellaneous galore,
These friendly mysteries so impure,
Bring neither frienship nor it's cure
Yet some columns do still resonate
Can't will our wills to love to hate
As we're prepared by this debate
Of Debunking love, debugging fate
All my evaporating, smoking loans,
Nightly whispers or daily moans
Like Replicating rondures in the rones
Dreams are dreams and stones are stones.
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- suraj sharma
- my mind, therefore, becomes this outstretched field of immeasurable serenity, which, although illuminated at angles awkward and unfamiliar to my eyes - is neither dark nor twilit. The strange lighting turns the vacuous foreplay of shadows chasing shadows into an euphoric, almost utopian feeling which is held in suspension as long as this configuration of appearances beckons the restlessness of reason ever forward into the uncharted hinterlands of imagination while at the same time compelling me to bless the lighting director.
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