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gothic poetry

we lay
i make my shroud, but no one knows
looking beyond
rocked in the cradle of the deep
and with the humming bird
be patient, life, when love is at the gate
softly weeping
i went up and down the streets
there were three in the meadow by the brook
death's nobility again
and so it goes
there is no flock, however watched and tended

 



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