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Two toads up to trouble.

My clock is always wound,
no time to let the seconds tick away.

I grew used to letting the moss gather.
a fern bending to the touch of the unfamiliar.

I long to be sought through the spyglass of the one I love.

To be habitually loved is not enough.
To habitually love another is not good enough either.

The spirit of the pigment I have accepted as my own,
embraced abroad, swirls in a rainstorm down the sewer systems
of a town I wish to walk in at night time. 



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