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A teenage girl, wrapped in a blanket. She is sitting on a sand dune looking out at the clouds.

When all of it seems like a song
like a dance or a play,
expressions and facades
seem to whisk me away,
out of that state of harmony
between artistry and brevity,
where I wrestle with glimpses
of my fiery darkness with clarity.
So devoted to a tripping taxonomy
of mine, ‘His’ and theirs,
where I race to some solitude
and string up lights in the devil’s lair,
and suddenly my weakest prayer
becomes unprecedentedly italicised,
in unawareness and deep thought
regarding earthly plans I’ve devised.
No continuation of what’s passed
or past words, wants and wits,
lightly tapping into the beauty of chaos
when it’s not home but heaven that it hits.
Unfleeting and unrelenting, in this dive
beneath currents of all the moonbeams,
unravelling at the sky’s seams,
as this logic bonds with dreams.

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