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Culprit’s Cusp

The bright sun is torching my tepid pale skin

As it burns through the shackles of my fermented sin

Basking in my sadness, the solar winds begin to blow

They’re telling me come out, they’re asking me to grow

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The tectonics shift Sand slips helpless through an hourglass Change is imminent, cataclysmic and crass It calls on the wind as our nails puncture the grass As we cling even tighter to loose archaic st

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