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"Move me, move me,"
Said the poet in his mind of pitch void.
Furry little minds scattered through the cerebral content of the poet,
He was indulgent in mystical smoke.
Swimming into the fire, into the sky, he was contend to find god,
But he wasn't sure if god existed.
Skillfully he managed to dodge death in bed,
He was not there on earth, but on the mind of Rimbaud.
"Move me, move me. I am shaken by life."
Said the poet in his death bed.
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