A coffin too fresh to have dust
All gears too busy tearing into rust
Decadent decaying
mechanical decalogue
Another speck of sand next to trillions of shooting stars
always out of grasp
Out of touch,
not out of sight--
never out of mind:
It's mental landmines,
Crutches for valentines.
All the drugs in this world will still bring you to a flatline
Death is worse,
when it's in front of your eyes
Inevitably,
You're born only to die
Such is the only kept promise
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