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dark poetry

i make my shroud, but no one knows
when the hours of day are numbered
in the dark and peace of my final bed
perhaps it is no matter that you died
if it
royal feast was done
do i like it
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
there was a strangeness on your lips
my true love from her pillow rose
i have known the silence of the stars and of the sea
these hearts were woven of human joys and cares

 



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