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In dire dear dreary needs,

Spired, expired, hired

All my senses, 

Sight, mighty bright trenches,

Hearing tears on kneeling wills,

Tasting haste in heart’s waste

Moments, opponents or rather surviving rodents,

Biting crunchy smite, in the night,

End is to pretend and ascend to your descend.

All is a hall,

Full of pulls,

And pushes of bushy mirrors.

ZB 

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