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broken heart poem

rising moon has hid the stars
i've won the race
from floor to ceiling
see, from this counterfeit of him
i make my shroud, but no one knows
doubtless i remember still
when night drifts along the streets of the city
risen from the dead
daughter, thou art come to die
my soul goes clad in gorgeous things
i love to steal awhile away
in their ragged regimentals
stern cold man

 



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