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good bye poem

sing again the song you sung
i make my shroud, but no one knows
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
within this lowly grave a conqueror lies
softly weeping
star-dust and vaporous light
in mournful numbers
the light withdrawn
darkest, strangest mystery
she limps with halting painful pace
look back with longing eyes and know that i will follow
when i was broke in london

 



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