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dark poetry

the meadow was creeping
little park that i pass through
all down the years
days endeared to every muse
i have cast the world
they in the darkness gather and ask
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
muffled drum's sad roll has beat
a look is but a ray
often is it not so?
i make my shroud, but no one knows
noises that strive to tear

 



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