a facsimile of torture
candlelit in moony dark
i want to unread the anointed death
on this tip of an arrow,
here it comes
the hissed phrase
wrenching the gut –
for conceptual withdrawl,
dawn of dark secrets
without footprints of echo
extracting a price,
do not stop fighting,
smear me with blood
hot spurts of thrills to defend the pink
in valley of counterfeits blades,
the green...
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