Threading gains to cope with the lame; through time I rewrite my temporal pain.
Knitting away in the most dazed of days, nobody but myself, seconds from ticking away.
Branding my name so i would never forget from whence i came,
the darkness that drained, along with the gains, the positive and plain.
A mind-field, all that I could see was a spine-field in need, like a graveyard begging to be rescued; only through a better ending can they proceed, to dismount, pause in their distress and uselessly lay claim to lacklustre blame.
The masses of complexes bind to the back like vast acres of trees, fallen on knees, waiting for the noise to recede.
Had to sweep, and sweep, even through the crevices, the places that are ever missed.
It compels my senses, and my complexes, to carry on, solely reliant on technique and routine.
Thus, when the smoke screen inhibits my beam, I know not of the vision, yet I remain keen to paddle and not to breathe-in, ergo ingest my own dreams.
Beyond moles there are discoveries, yet they aid me, facilitating my mishaps and know nots.
Daring for the day I remember me.
Wishful thinking, that one day maybe life will continue without the feeling of being in need.
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