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first father stands in thunderstorms

facing the rain of an unknown pitch black night

swimming with cruel beasts and invisible creatures crawling out of a foreign earth

bleeding with wounds of a skin that only knows thorns

and thinking to himself

it is so lonely out here

it is so lonely out here

you start to wonder who typed this

when.

same poet-pen of despair

repeating folly of flesh.

this life of one query again and again.

perhaps this is written in future

and the words remain the same

it is so lonely out here

it is so lonely out here

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