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Roaming.. from the anchors

When you're born, your bitten with these phantom types of growling, growing cravings,

your soles always roaming.. from the anchors.

Your pulse.. wanting to ride them. Wanting to feed them. Wanting to bleed them.

Sometimes love.. gives you a warning,

tangency, to rev your only heart's life.

As your clock strays... ticking, underneath the track.

And ghosts of ages, pass you


                   never looking back

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