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by Atlas Quest about a year ago in surreal poetry

ramblings of my lament

As I tread upon weary blades of vert, my worries undertow

I think of creation that sprung forth long ago

If Eve to be an afterthought of man’s needs, what would that make me

To live for another or to live alone, both stroked with bristles of the same tone

In a realm of Epicenter’s design, why do I only plot this path of mine

Could Source forgive my desire to know all, the urge consumes entirely that I am

Falling placid step upon trippy heartstrings, stoically wiring a face only my consciousness controls

Happenings certain of what I may ‘perhaps’, gold inlay my precious cracks

Maintaining, clutching the hand of the ache fate gave

A sexuality posed Aromantic accusingly calls me maliciously frantic

The spirit of Gemini materializes participants whose eager eyes I do not recognize

And with these copious queries storming my mind, the only vowel I utter is


surreal poetry

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Atlas Quest

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