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Literature Text
And who wrote on your skin some mark
That bears repeating?
Who set the rhythm in your voice to
Stand as relic; your outline a figurehead
Your touch like Midas leaving those
Once glorious cold and far behind?
Your crown is a jester's cap
Coated in fool's gold, adorned in pretty lies
The realization of your kingdom crumbles
In the wake of such hollow footfalls
Grown tired from these porcelain shackles and brambled cages
Built around naivety & memory to crush their prey so softly
A wandering knight awaits outside the gates
For rusted hinges to break to free prisoners and lay claim
On that day the air will fill with
A song of lies begging in their death for truth
But their spiced scent can never change this:
The cranberries you plated were bitter and out of season.
That bears repeating?
Who set the rhythm in your voice to
Stand as relic; your outline a figurehead
Your touch like Midas leaving those
Once glorious cold and far behind?
Your crown is a jester's cap
Coated in fool's gold, adorned in pretty lies
The realization of your kingdom crumbles
In the wake of such hollow footfalls
Grown tired from these porcelain shackles and brambled cages
Built around naivety & memory to crush their prey so softly
A wandering knight awaits outside the gates
For rusted hinges to break to free prisoners and lay claim
On that day the air will fill with
A song of lies begging in their death for truth
But their spiced scent can never change this:
The cranberries you plated were bitter and out of season.
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"I still catch myself feeling sad about things that don’t matter anymore."— Kurt Vonnegut
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