There's a beauty to shame
In having your head lowered
into your own vomit and ruffled messily
There's a special nature to humility
In having rocks and pebbles pelted
at whiplash speed because of your preferences
There's something dear to hate
In the menacing twinkling
of eyes set sanguine by blistering rage
There's a quality unknown to man
In the end-notes of life's literature
a truth glanced over by academics
There's an end to all movement
In the leavened pulse
That reverberates through finitude
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