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Literature Text
Out in the bone-yard
lies the remains on the hero
who once stood tall
now so small
as to wallow in sorrow.
Tears salt the earth
where he stood.
He weeps for what
he will never be again.
Strong.
Proud.
A Hero.
Alive
lies the remains on the hero
who once stood tall
now so small
as to wallow in sorrow.
Tears salt the earth
where he stood.
He weeps for what
he will never be again.
Strong.
Proud.
A Hero.
Alive
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Les Limbes
Lost in time and space I tried to follow your path But you were already lost In your own reality. J’ai traversé le temps et l’espace, Suivi le vol des oiseaux. J’ai franchi les landes et les glaces En quête de tes maux. Je n’ai trouvé qu’un désespoir infini, Qu’une absurde surréalité. Je n’ai pas trouvé ma place Dans les limbes de ton passé.
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The Thorniest Stem to Hold
You know, I always did see an odd beauty in the wreckage I could find a certain charm in broken things, like the devastation left by a wildfire or the rubble of a collapsed building, there is a strange aesthetic in the brokenness of both things and people *** I always wondered at the way the life still somehow lingers, like nature takes over abandoned places or grows back from the destruction, the ashes nourish new forms of life, different but just as miraculous, like trees grow out of decaying bodies, or tears cleanse the soul, and broken people have a weird way of still functioning regardless, like heightened empathy and unwanted wisdom grew from all that ugliness, I think maybe my fascination was born out of recognition and the wonder out of hope that maybe something could blossom from the ruins of me too, maybe I could regenerate too and maybe all the wrong that stunted my growth and strangled the life out of every
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The Meaning of Things Now
In the old town: Sneakers hang from traffic lights as if to say they would have run if they could. If they weren't tethered to this place, and so paired their steps with the sound of airhorns. The sound of trains is the voice of sepia now -- the dark throat of a city as it is in memory lagging behind with time. At least a handful I know claim it as their birthright - played chicken along the tracks. You can see the last peak highlight of a streak of young hair stretched across the tracks as it stitches itself to the sun. It carries the light of an old flame's eyes, the crown of light from the tops of our heads into the horizon. Maybe we fell in love because we stood before each other as far away - all the places we could go wavering along our edges - the tips of our strands, but everything open has since sealed itself matte as flowers in wall-paper, stowed away in self-preservation - a corsage as prescient as petals pressed between laminates. There is a landscape made in the
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