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There is a mountain full of plums

dripped from a foreign vein.

A chewing mouth and feeling gums

spread it’s taste and feeds it’s brains.

How many rivers across it’s steep?

How many lies until they drain?

How many berries have to weep,

until their juice no longer spills?

The seeds are found in earth so deep

and strewn across the world’s quills

to grow within the ethic slums

inciting grace and mercy’s trills.

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