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Rated: E · Poetry · Other · #1852191
Ironic poem about dying from life.
Habit

She revealed a satirical grin
As her veins twisted into
Nothing more;
Needling her faculties to
Devastation.
And I gripped the carcass-
What a sinner I'd become:
No blood could glut or extend
Me to mercy.
And so it was,
Like the drunken
Burn beneath her skin,
I followed ignorantly.
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