The Death of a Poet: Death the Last Chapter

December 3, 2014 3:16 PM

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Our existence derives its meaning from use, for this reason a glass bellows when it is used even for mundane activities as opposed to a china set that is reserved for the grandest of balls. Seemingly important yet so impotent, a parody of life. For it cursed to accumulate dust, yearning for that special occasion when it will be used.

We are doomed to suffer death not but once, but a myriad times. Life is but a cycle, dotted with pleasantries and marred with sorrow, born with a whimper, the apple of our mother's affection yet we are damned to die but alone. Sans prized possesses, for all these are but meaningless, for who can boa...

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