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Impulsive Prophets
The cynical prophets have words
Ripe on their developed worlds
With egos wrapped in matted worth
They pine for that which cant be given
Shining orbs of capitolism
When hope all dies and matter ceases
Only the slow hum of traffic keeps
You steady, waiting on impulses
Passive with your own delirium
You can't see, you're blind to your own
Hallucinations.
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What?
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