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by J-Monc Author IconMail Icon
Rated: E · Poetry · Dark · #1666693
A prose poem.
All is lottery, it doesn't go more deep, got you buzzing but believe me, it's just tawdry. The laws seem to make it orderly like some formula applies, making it alive, got you looking more keen. Soon, you realise, you don't recite, it's all extempore, nothing is formed from the off, not even the laws, the forms can explore these concepts for sure. Not even the context, which is another form, your load's less, yes but soon, you rest and cast your mind behind you find nothing that cuts it, it's all a gamble, your mind's candle can't handle the darkness.

You score a goal, the applause explodes but you know your show is nothing more, soon you get bored. Yes, the laws were once a cause to be ensured, an 'of course', now it's outlived itself, dismissal is what it implores, that is the call of them very laws.

Maybe, it's all my eye, but I surmise this thought rides the floors of many, me besides.
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