Do NOT read

This loathsome work of fiction is a dream of sorts...

Wednesday, 6 May 2020

This world

The world, I've built
Is the life, I've been given
Unfurled and opened
Of itself.
As the turning, birthing, burning trees,
Are made so insignificant, by me,
Yet stay, are made, within their frame,
And though, I name them,
They remain.

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