Back and forth they swing in my backyard like the dull afterthoughts of a picturesque bloodbath,
The remains of the earth that fed you wisdom grits its teeth and hides satisfaction,
Providing the disease that sets our souls free from gorgeous red on the foot trails of tragedy,
Dreams are only malfunctioned thoughts put into perspective,
The good old days of amnesia are like gold to my comatose wonderland,
I, the son of disease, give life to immunity in advance,
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