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Rated: E · Poetry · Personal · #1636854
self-indulgent #3
How forced
Plentitude of thought
Awaits magnificence
Brooding by the wayside, they
Pack close, huddle in earnest
As if numbers lends gravity
Too true, that effort which rises from ardour
Has strength naught.
Yet we Offer this our strivings in
Timid hope, what of?
Of eventual, nay Immediate self-gratification, the goal
Only one of privileged praise,
Though never to be had
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