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Behold my savior, for he comes on a plate (in a capsule) |
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Wouldst thou grant my soul peace before I should cross thee, lest I take flight from this bridge, and plummet through my most ecstatic anticipation |
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What is and what is not |
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There is only an hourglass and a scythe, a picturesque solace made for dying and burials |
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I no longer dream of us |
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For I am swept away in this solitary sea of breathless harmony |
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The fixation flickers and is snuffed out |
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It is just myself and these apparitions |
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Lingering around as if to communicate something to me |
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But I am deaf |