This medium's played the back burner. I've staved off the stow aways and rap fervor. Stayed off the road I paved in black journals. Paint thoughts in coded phrases that serve to sew the pace to match perfect. Stroll the maze. Wrap sermons in sultan capes. It's insulting. May my last words be half murmured and full of weight. My rock bottom's top's mossy. Go 'head and get comfy. Settled in to sediment. The sentiment's just breathe. Sentenced to sit with it. No sense interrupting. The premise is limits since we're just one being deceased in a blink, but think we're disrupting. Delusions of grandeur are human. Our ancestors and
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