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I can only hear the story of others,
There are no words for my own.
My limbs have acted, my voice responded
Yet invisible to time, and forgotten by earth
Mingled with dust, I merely occupy space.

I am afraid of many things:
Poverty, exile, rejection and death.
Two legs and a mortal life-
Happy humanity gives me reason, grieves and gods
Who offered me glimpses of beautiful purpose made of clouds
An insubstantial fake for which I fought ten teary years
Losing everything except my breath

Now, in the sun, standing in the desert
Where the universe conspires for me--
So the alchemist would say--
In the glare of light, I hear the rumble of storm
And tremble at the thought of sand upon my flesh
Until it is whithered and bleached
While the ground stretches level and boundlessly on.

The conscious shape reality.

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The following comments are for "Even Teucer Must've Despaired"
by Furius

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