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Black Fingered Pond

Again death swirls its black finger around the aura of pristine ponds. That now sprout the stoutest weeds where sleepy lilies and emerald songs used to breathe where souls once rested so naturally. Again death swirls its black finger leaving me slightly paler than a happy life I'm never quite as fleet as death, (the cigarette popped party balloon, the darkest swayback best)

Copyright © | Year Posted 2014

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