Behind this completely broken circadian rhythm
is a desert where tears are commodities
where children are looked at with feint curiosity
against dilated obsidian and absent questions
infected with an envy for perfection
dunes of disenfranchised and disconnected
when respective humanities leak from passive eyes
admiringly dumbfounded with those actions
I question the depth of my desires as bodies of water
Realms of great thought echo through my human
Continuing to seek a precipice that defines their existence
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