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August 09 2017

C10H12N2O
20:55
I haven't always...

I'm pretty sure when I was born the stars haven't aligned for the tragic prophecy 
they just wanted to have some fun and someone had a little too much to drink
the sight becomes foggy with age
there's no one to be blamed for that 

I can't say I was surprised as I entered every pyre myself
hell, the wood came from the tree I planted and watched grow from the smallest of seeds until it was a thousand meters high and ready to be my demise

I think somewhere on the way I agreed with the part
it's just that
- in revenge for thousand years of betrayals -
it's my hair every Samson strokes until it's on fire again

 you put the scissors in my hand I'm not even asleep

it doesn't matter

somehow, someway, throughout the history it's probably fair

I hug the burned tangles close in the middle of the night
They still smell of the pyre
they will grow back

my burned eyes cannot produce tears but they will
it's not the first, not the last time 
I'm half asleep and the wind opens the window
I open my eyes and see the tiniest of seeds laying in wait in my hand
I-
not today, not tomorrow

in a day, in a week, in a month, in a year
I'll plant it again

when I close my eyes, I see the fire
I remember the pain
it's the sweetest of heats

the seed grows into a sapling

in a moment they'll chop the wood for me
he is not a priest but he waits with the sacrificial knife
I think I hear myself laughing so hard my burned lungs can't keep up

what's the point of considering it even for a second when it-
it will grow back.



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