Lower metallicity doesn’t bode well

mishandled, it paints me blue
shady, it persists still, though beset
how it damages, indisposed
as it may be, parted from deference to itself
squeezing that standard weave at the edges
making the centre warp
there’s no us anymore
too much happened without dignity
but with high gravity it keeps falling
its tongue wagging
so typical this white-bread
an indistinct repetition that’s grown stale

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