poetry

Mope

Sharpest Perception a Road Less Traveled

It had become a phantom irrelevant to my hopes. Paralyzing my speeches, puppeteering my legs to Mope. The ghost of history’s past acknowledged loudly, how I normally coped, but scattered at my resistance, one my feet gave way, to Mope. Oblivious to gains even, the wins I scoped, nothing in my mind’s outlet intrigued it, like when I moped.

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