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gothic poetry

this ancient silver bowl of mine
the hypocritic days
before the solemn bronze saint
white foam flower, red flame flower
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
three years ago today
storm
i am singing to you
o fair and stately maid, whose eyes
i never knew the earth had so much gold
i am fevered
burly, dozing humble-bee
she said

 



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