the words that tip into tomorrow,
with their past in tow,
to answer questions, now forgotten
to all but vague remembrance
for predilections of vague uncertainty,
lie on beds of mortal dying,
scarred by thoughts, unknown.
yet clear-eyed with perfect skin...
still floundering for death,
in hopes for life that worsen with the cure,
till untimely, falls the hopes
that what there IS is not delusion....
and that dreams of this are not illusion.
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