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You mock me with one blinking eye,
that never ceases, never stops, never relents.
Berating me with it's ease of place
in stead of my lack of flow.
Words like iron, like bark or sap,
existing somewhere outside of my view;
alive in someone else's woods.
My forest is bleak, unyielding.
It offers no shelter, its fruit has no taste.
A skeletal wasteland that I once picked clean.
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