What is the point to thinking anymore the high of set sun is now transformed into a new moon it is virgin and yet so empty the newborn moon and the space in my chest are one in the same void of light and yet still blank in the sterile shadow of the sun it is cold and empty within my chest for I long to be in the graces of the waxing crescent for the luminescence it brings to the hollowed yet untouched place beneath my ribs yet to blossom into a final eternal cycle
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