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I.
the rows of clouds hang like grandiose mountain ranges in the horizons of her mind before slowly dissolving into a mist and disappearing into the blue-black darkness of her monologue — reiterating leave, leave, leave.
II.
the flowers adorning her mind are withered and dead from thirst— what can be plucked are the thorns lacing the thin strands on her head. her whispers are meek like the autumn breeze when the sun sets; it makes no sound and possesses no voice.
III.
the oceanic death resonates inside her swollen azure irises seven seas have died and birthed mystic creatures yet she was never one of them but — the day when she will be in union with the skies, the space, the stars — when her body will break out of its rotten shells, she will join them in their looping dance.
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