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Not dead but dying...


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Well rogues....

-*-*-*-*-*-

 

Take my hand in the old ’Theatre Of Seven Hells’;

a ferry that bowed its wings,

we call HER: ’Moon by Day’.

Life - a book in painful tongue that hurts our ears.

Flowers of the end, their seed shall grow.

Your breath shall be my coat,

the underworld is - oh - so cold.

The dead don’t feel chill,

but please, hold me warm.

The aweful night has gone; what lay before... -

we can’t remember.

Even Morpheus has drowned in the lament

of his own weeping shadow...

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