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The fingernails encrusted upon the glass

Mary sends her sorrow

And Mother nature seems so deceased

And father time sulked and surly

And waterfalls of fragmented hope

And words cannot form, for its reason is gone

And forlorn in silence

As a disguise

Cancerous plants reach towards

And thrust us into an unknown existence

Only to be felt by the sting of creation

(Or to not feel at all)

And shunned away to a stillness

A default state

A blank slate