This moon was a planet just like the earth, only it is even deader.
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The pistols of its flowers are the only protection against insetcs,
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which were more preoccupied with the half rotted inhabitants soiled to the brim undet their own garments.
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History tells us of their blood flowing down one leg and up the other.
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Memories insoluble to their conscience, memories,
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outside themselves in a twisted prank played upon them by dogs tired of chasing their food.
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Thin oxygen curves their posture substantially.
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Flashes of their purpose stripped to skeletal ornaments of meat
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and resin from animal marks flciker over the loudscreen.
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Machines hum quietly in the distance.
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A few naive inhanbitants wander foolishly after sundown in search of black spots,
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but no one leaves this moon carefree of memory.
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Survivors often match their hands upward towards greater satellites,
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wronged in the eyes by a million miles and a million more bodies to sift through.
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The smaller creatures have the secret to pinning us down to the dirt:
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When they breathe, they inspire, when we breathe, we expire.
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Controlled Mayhem Then Erupts
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Cave-In |