Lost or gone the traces still conspicuous…
To masquerade as what I’m not the then
I find at my wit’s end—
The mortal combat on the brink of a sad defeat.
Stand on, I try rather hopelessly
The sown impression seed so robustly vibrant—
I tangle with blindly teetering and sliding.
Yet another dawn, I muse, there should be
Where this huge aggregate of consciousness blotted out.
How you would wonder the sort of combat it can be, but such one may be tough for you too.
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