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I can scarcely lay claim to flesh. |
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Though it is dreamed for, wept for. |
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And it shines like dark gems. |
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...It is the noise and the dancing, |
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And their joyless hearts. |
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And all the pleasures one might have. |
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Derelict tracts of hell. |
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Then all these slices came through to my hands. |
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To erupt in welcoming darkness. |
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And it shines like streams of pain. |
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...It is the hearse and the vulture |
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And their swollen yarn. |
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And all the breath to mourn them with. |
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This is the tune of sparks, |
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The tone of relentlessness. |
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The spiral scar. |
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This is the wounds that sneers, |
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The trance of creedence. |
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You are my art. |