the season
of exsanguination
came and went
and there I spent
the auspices of youth’s adore
whose glory
I shall know
no more
though hollow scenes
have stayed the hour
sentencing the hearth
yond mire
I remain
the entropy of birth
beholden to its herald
Max, or Not 
More poems should be about entropy. Thank you.
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Youth and innocence are lost, so easily, and once they’re gone, we can’t, ever get them back, and nothing will, ever be, the same…
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<3
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