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halloween poem

he speaks not well
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
stuff of the moon
i said
now while my lips are living
here lies a most beautiful lady
when the hours of day are numbered
tripping up, falling down
sleep, gray brother of death
let us express our baser passions
thou unrelenting past
see i give myself to you
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges

 



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