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Crimson
Those who seem to have mastered
a certain hardy skepticism
that can register earthquakes
ten thousand miles away;
They live among broken fragments-
an unquiet darkness full of
screaming secrets.
Yet they have been heard,
but chosen to be ignored.
What foul dust floats in the
wake of their dreams?
A broken series of failing
gestures.
What extensiveness?
Falling just short of all hope.
Inside, they bloom with crimson
light; faces sad but lovely;
once with bright things in them.
Dulled.
How gorgeous?
A shame.
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