Entrada

There is no satisfaction I have found
Where the talking heads abound,
Fecundity through a silver slither.
By their transmissions undeceived,
A different future misconceived
To my caruncle could deliver.

I’d rather wander worlds alone
If travelling lonely would atone
For those who stole from me.
Years to moments weighted gold
Which actors trapped and elsewhere sold;
Another time is remedy.

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