With the ashes

Strained paths of straight intention
With intentions to distribute
Hope from hopeless chatter.

Who knew one could gain from
the small fragments of confidence.
There’s Irony in thanking the creator
For pain,

Questioning pleasure,
The party seems a bit fictitious to me when lights dim with wisdom, and
We all begin to burn out.

World on fire rotating off
A momimtim meant to recycle
Vain repetitions of the flesh
To appeal to the taste of man.

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