wild fancies like wilted flowers down 
watery bowels 
to rot.

They only serve as conversation pieces. 

Like have you ever felt as though
you'd lived so very long ago,
when visions of this future left you breathless and inspired,
and you'd waited out the weary ends of ages,
just for it to be
just so.

Fanciful, as I have mentioned,
fruitless, unappreciated, 
selfish to a point, and even beautiful.

But wise men keep such beauty to themselves.

into a pulp and bleeding out the sides-- This 
is how it wants to be remembered.

The End

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