look-alike old men, cloned in the brothers labs, living masses at death, passing around meaningless bouquets of dried bees.
In their most deep puddles they beautify death, fearing it in their bones, shaking to the rhythm of it's coming.
They chain themselves to the trains of life, longing for the last stop, enduring the ride, unknowing the freedom their chains grant them.
Oh, how myself longs for the long-lost feeling of freedom, put aside after childhood.
oh, how I should envy the faceless passing me by as the clock strikes twelve.
Ding, becoming animal.
Ding, fake, predispositioned passion for the waterless river, who's flow disturbs me deeply.
Ding, Ding, Unknowingly adding another circle for me to grab, feeding my essence, scratching my tongue as it grasps their neck.
Can Eden live after I die?
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