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I fear nothing of my being,
my conscious self, cries not
except in silence, waiting death of the soul
and all things must stop, and their is no existence.
What of my words,
sitting in a string of ones and zeroes
floating in the technical clouds,
have we become too interdependant with the machine.
What of your words,
existing in soundless waves
molecules floating never recieved
is the end so abrupt and we are thrown off our world.
we are really nobodies
dust covered ashes to wither away
the end of days is a new reality
without a thought to whisper us by on another poem
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