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sad death poem

i burn no incense
world that changes under my hand
like him whose spirit in the blaze of noon
i have cast the world
but i cannot read you now
i've won the race
candles toppling sideways in tomato cans
within this lowly grave a conqueror lies
for these white arms about my neck
her face is fair and smooth and fine
no prey am i of poor thoughts

 



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