There is a way In which, existence tends to seep through the pores of the skin.
Yet, we miscarry sensitivity…the waters that saturate and speck our existence,
leaving traces where upon we walk, we wane…we breathe new life
Sensing the touch of death, which will eventuate.
Perpetuating a chain of innocent appearances, upon which we formulate frames of continuance to
keep the waters still.
Yet, the openings continue to tint…the portrait within the frame.
Eventually drowning through the fabricated lines…and tainting the ground we walk upon.
Be wary of whereupon it is you tread…
for you are paling into existence, leaving traces of your tinge.
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