My language languidly aligns itself with prose, shrugging off the cloak of poetry, which it once hid under. Stanzas are seemingly swallowed up, metabolised into meaningless, marginless and meandering words. The mountain stream has run its course, gushing through gullies. Angst, anger and adrenaline fueled passion has become a timeless, thoughtful and tempered flow. In the tumbling torrents I lost sight, now closer to the tides I see again. Structure matters little, and vocabulary less, all that matters, is that it's you.

The End

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