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By jamesaguiar - Posted on 21 January 2010

 Summer winds push away the clouds.
Heat hangs like a shroud
In the still afternoon.
Nothing moves without purpose.
Action is worthless.
Epiphany is in its cocoon.
There is no room 
To presume
Existence beyond heat.
The feat
Is pretense, intense
That tomorrow will extinguish
This indolent anguish
Of life on the cooking rock.
Nature mocks
The mad who move
Trying to disprove
Yesterday's cold irony
With today's blasphemy.

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