Everywhere I look, cold and unsmiling faces peer at me,
painting idyllic pictures sweetly mocking the innocence of my dreams.
At every bend I take, gnarled and melancholic figures await me,
persistently beckoning me onward ever so subtly.
Beyond the hills I see, hands of time rendered bloody by the setting sun,
wearily moving forward, searching for pasts long buried 'neath the sand.
In the distance the horizon I behold, standing passively in its serenity,
waiting to envelope weary stragglers in its melancholic embrace.
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