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Now the snow just as might lay cloaking all the remains shrouding of all the wounds and sores of losses and fatigue with pure, white amnesia |
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The shrieking ruin of a hard winter's kiss takes forever more summers to mend |
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Rather it lay cold and dead than revealed in all it's necrotic splendour |
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In days of revolt |
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I too would carry a torch and swing at my arrows |
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But time is ruthless and heals nothing |
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For the sun uncovers by it's taunting rays are like swords to lies life and dreams, however nightmarish (are built upon) |