Steeped in garish retribution // only none of it in any way beautiful anymore // a ‘relative’ tale of comatose conversation // only none of it creative // when one heaving lady sits eerily both irksome and jadedly earmarked from the rest // a resting relic of her former self… perhaps? // uttermost afraid aside undeniably lost // in This life // Petrified porcelain pixelated eyes which fair fecksome fail to righteously realise // the weight of her peerless pain // about. to. fondly.abstain?

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