In the complicated nature of life, its death

The complicated nature of life 

is its death: it’s what makes us all cry and de-

spies so our truths.

And whilst sophisticated machinery does make an infirmary

of all the institutions that ever

did aim to claim 

a preponderance of 

goodwill, such right ways, do propers, and fine says as they may

and they might, as they

ought and they 

taught,

in actuality the

wounded walking have paid the deathly price 

of the tricycles of the

children we all once used to be: riding unfound, and 

allowed 

to run free: 

a teetering movement towards 

a hollow reality.

And so in the end,

the depths we do dive produce the bends of 

serious out-of-shape 

described.

And thus no resolution will ever be uncovered. 

In life, its own death: 

in life, nothing

recovers.

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