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Sol Forsaken I just starve on the notion of what is not there. Pulled from the minds, like the hairs on your head, and that you get the good going. That you lose what was there. You treasure the damaged and damn yourself once before, just leave it at the floor level. That you going up. Like that story brought, exile yourself because of the lot. But because you took what was elegance and warped it into forsaken spark. Vote for this poem
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