Too good for the world.
Shunning those who care for you.
Treating others as dirt.
Money may separate.
But surely those with nothing else,
But ego self,
Promotion.
These I wish were but dead.
Empty of all truth.
And yet, the night breeze, I sensed, it became a hurricane in the morning, my dream, in it as though truth itself, is to know that night breeze, as though in romance- to romance the mystery of the hidden truth. For I love the night breeze, which so few yet can sense.
These I wish were but dead.
Empty of all truth.
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