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Thee A-Sunder
Thus wilting becomes of me, the star so constant, yet so lonely,
Was tiss the hight yet to be reached, what is our limit?
Thy'est thunder reaps my soul for what it sews...
What tiss thee end?
Ney encomber thee, powerfully tempted, upon thee,
What tiss the end?
A'Loft, a-sunder, encombered, enwrapped in a colapse
Of thoughts falling like snowflakes in the sun.
Copyright ©
Matthew Rozon
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