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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Nonsense · #2258965
Now wouldn't that be telling.
My mind is meandering. Under duress.
Summon the Stationer. I want a new dress.
To paper the cracks of my tissue thin lies,
That hold me together, maintain my disguise.

Summon the Barber. I want a parade,
Of all the stupid mistakes I have made.
The hairline cracks, I never noticed them at all.
I brushed aside the facts, that I was heading for a fall.

My mind cuts decisively. Sharp just like a blade.
Summon the Gardener. I want to get laid.
On a bed of my own making, beneath a winding sheet for two.
My mattress of misgivings, and a tortured dream of you.

Summon the Astrologer. There's boundaries to transgress.
My mind is going backwards. Inclining to regress.
Declining the ascendant, as it stars in its own right.
Casting around for aspects, to get me through the night.
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