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Ancient Mariner
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Jun 12th, 2011, 06:33 PM
Yearning, fighting, screaming, done.
Wells of hours ending;
Our lives content in hallowed streams
With the rebels gently dreaming.
Who knows what thoughts of men will burn
From searing, blackened skies?
What cost of promised holy gold,
when pried from living eyes?
Firemasked gods and brooding dolls
with swords of porcelain ring-
the waters rise,
the cities drown,
and the laughing bird will sing.
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IT'S A GOOFY BALL, MATTHEW. NOT A SUPER COMPUTER.
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