To dream of death, to dream of life.
In the
Whispered words, these walls breathe the inanity of accusation
And
A storm beyond what eyes can see,
but read my palm
In my darkest hour my blood runs free.
I’ve come
If only lives could paint themselves.
The winding roads would
We settle for pleasure.
We revel in pain.
She will regret
Through the waxing, through the waning
amidst blackness a spark
Enticed by the myriad multiplicity,
Entombed by our own disguise.
We will
The voice cannot carry
The tongue and the lips that give
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