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“What the bourgeoisie therefore produces, above all, are its own grave-diggers.”—Karl Marx
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Touch of Solitude

Icy

Fingers

 

 

Pierce

 

 

My 

Skull

 

 

As

l

Hear

 

 

A

Water

Droplet

 

 

Explode

Upon

Concrete

 

 

Reverberating

Solitude

Across 

 

 

My

Solipsistic

Universe

 

 

My

Cell

 

One

Of

Many

Cells

 

Cannibalistic

Crypts

Which

 

 

Feed

 

 

Upon

Youth’s

Life

Essence

 

 

Animating

The

Monstrosity

 

 

Fed

 

 

Upon

The

Flesh

 

 

My

Flesh

Impervious

 

 

Necrotic

Burning

Charred

From

 

 

The

Touch

Of

Solitude

 

 

Posted in Thoughts

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