Passive undertones,
like stones, deposited in poems.
But they roam.
Like traveling mercenaries.
Little sanctuaries,
of thought.
Pockets of air in a distraught,
civilization of astronauts.
Lost in the apocalyptic,
egocentric,
wasteland of words that we forgot.
The creation of literary vibrations.
They are librarians of vision.
Symbolizing the compilation,
of education.
It's a drop of wisdom,
in this modern prison of theorems.
Like post-mortems,
the attempt to find the symptoms of our rhythm.
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