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Fear of Sludgey Dull
Pray Lord, let me succumb,
To senility, or be struck dumb,
For fear I may persistently complain
Should my life exude mere nutria stain
For what is the point of, or even the use
If daily existence does not suffuse
But suffers from a sludgey dull cataclysm
That of being a bleak singular dull monchromatism
So delete the quotidian
Burn iridescent chameleon bright
Stain through earth's meridean
A Munsell Scale of dazzling light
Splash me and dash me
Opalescently mish and mash me
Feel my synaesthsia, striving to be free
And not until all colours marinate deep this itchyfoot soul
will I settle for indistinction
Or hypostatise in mundanity droll
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