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prose poetry

sad são que sabem não o amor
behold mim, em meus chiffon, gauze e ouropel
uma milha atrás
o sol pisou para baixo de seu throne dourado
se o slayer vermelho pensar slays
desde que eu senti o sentido da morte
ao longo de um river-side
olhe para trás com olhos longing e saiba que eu seguirei
cidade que não é uma cidade
trançado e tecido
eu vi com olhos abertos
velas que toppling lateralmente em umas latas do tomate
o dia é feito
todo meu amor para meu doce

 



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