PAIN. Nettles. Anonymous.

Rotten, fallen and forgotten
Misjudged Bulk,
I sulk to what could of been a glistening sheen in a heard of nettles,
in a vast wood who failed to clutch, onto your goods I timed your pace
your benign haste I lept out, and got a taste
But those prickles denied me, my clutch didn’t guide me
ephemeral in the physical, colossal in the mental.
You will always remain there.
As a spec on my thorn.


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