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Stars MAG
What is there in a star more
Than a pit of flaming dreams?
Stolen from our somnolence
And kindled at the seams.
They throw upon the long night,
Consumed by blind and hollow
Things, scrapes of worn-out light to
Illuminate sorrow
And all which is silenced by
Hot liquid tranquility
Running, coursing through veins of
Heaving, weeping entity.
Why, then, need we the stars
to radiate upon the emptily bounteous
when we have kerosene and books?
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