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Sin
Lo, do I grasp with my wretched fingers,
Onto where my heart it still lingers,
Tendrils hold as though a parasite,
With it's life causes my blight,
Even withered it does not die,
For its mother hears its cry,
Nurturing back to good health,
Yet it is I who have dealth,
Suttle thoughts fuel the proliferation,
Making death its instrumentation,
Rest from it comes with the welcome of dirt,
To a place where the heart shall not hurt.
Copyright ©
Garrett Bass
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