Grand Satan - Gord - Aspoet
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Gord

2016-07-12 12:00 am
In his future he sees tired coughing,
But the seer mundane usually finds nothing,
Only peering back upon seared meat,
Apparently to be, or feel something.

Caravans of the sky desire furniture,
Of which the past robbed the future,
Paradigms of the mind flipped suture,
Lying prone as a feat of nature.

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