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You can polish yourself until the day you die, but you’ll still be defective.

It came from beneath, the ground bleeds
after all, humans are creatures of grotesque
disease is what’s left of this air we breathe
ghoulish intentions, it seems; so it appeared to me
vivid as it were, it faded, with ease, across my feet
indeed, it was a quick deceit.

Categories: Poetry
Tags: #Life

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