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gothic poetry

my mother twines me roses wet with dew
i hold your heart
gone are the three, those sisters rare
i am a woman
skies they were ashen and sober
burly, dozing humble-bee
all quiet along the potomac
the ancient songs
evidenced in the glimmer in your eyes
give me
i flung my soul to the air like a falcon flying
passing through huddled and ugly walls

 



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