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By Clyde Standing on the edge of a cliff, The rocks at my feet sharper than needles. I stand there staring at the horizon, Voices of the wind carried down to my ear by way of the darkening clouds. The massive thicket creeps from behind me and pierces my bare feet, The blackberry thorns stinging my already-raw flesh. I stand here, unable to turn back. I have made my way, and now the bramble has blocked regression, the rock beneath me crumbling, Plunging to the depths of eternity amidst a pile of rubble. |
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