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Mold

  • Tomásio
  • Feb 22, 2020
  • 1 min read

Updated: Feb 27, 2020

Anxiety fills the air and porous planks of wood

between what i want and what i get lies what i think may be or should

could I? or could i not, embark on tales, made pure of gold

beneath my lungs, beneath my heart lies smoldering embers, mold.

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