Putrid Husk
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Winning light, summer's abate autumn's cold.
Just a short distance around the corner.
We never believed we ought to grow old.
Winning light, summer's abate autumn's cold.
With haunting souls through agony and gold
Time spent, memories formed, air of scorner.
Winning light, summer's abate autumn's cold.
Just a short distance around the corner.
Written: March 1st, 2023
Copyright © Sotto Poet | Year Posted 2023
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