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GS (19/1/90 / birmingham (England))

Discord

The morning sky so desolate, silent...
Drenched a bloody red,
Clouds like wads of soiled cotton packing a messy wound,
The pathetic fallacy apt I think, the day we lost ourselves.
We are left to stitch across the discord
And pull our limbs back into motion
Without respite to mourn ourselves.
Let’s hope we can run now,
Despite fatigue,
We shall run until we die.

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