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This moon was a planet just like earth, only it is even deader |
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The pistols of its flowers are the only protection |
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Against insects, which were more preoccupied with the |
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Half-rotted inhabitants soiled to the brim |
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Under their own garments |
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History tells us of their blood |
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Flowing down one leg and up the other |
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Memories insoluble to their conscience |
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Memories outside themselves in a twisted prank |
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Played upon them by dogs tired of chasing their food |
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Thin oxygen curves their posture substantially |
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Flashes of their purpose stripped to skeletal ornaments |
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Of meat and resin from animal marks |
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Flicker over the loudscreen |
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Machines hum quietly in the distance |
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A few naive inhabitants wander foolishly after sundown |
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In search of black spots |
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But no one leaves this moon carefree of memory |
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Survivors often match their hands upward |
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Towards greater satellites |
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Wronged in the eyes by a million miles |
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And a million more bodies to sift through |
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The smaller creatures have the secret |
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To pinning us down to the dirt: |
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When they breathe, they inspire |
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When we breathe, we expire |