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Rated: ASR · Poetry · Death · #1983332
Confessional

I told you before they cry
I told you, now
This coming March
For all that's harsh
Through claret caught stringent blade

Run porcelain's cracks
Rise red through snow
Nail's burrow better
Out goes go-getter
Today I resist

But today I give in
While sickle's still high
In cigarette's blind

In lovers tried
Heal.

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