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28 February 2020

Existential Crisis # 57i

this place

burns me out

with wearisome

repetition

its suburban cliché

weighs heavy

on my doldrums

and I’m drowning

in an ocean

of sundays


I’ve gone native

in the great nocturnal

I’m flying solo

from now on

I better bail out

before I’m found out

I have deviated

from the pattern

of the flock


those dopes

are sheparded

by wolves

they are helpless

and enthralled

their decline

commenced sooner

than anticipated

they had assumed

they’d be given

more time


.

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