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| >> Static Item >> Poetry >> Death >> ID #1140300 |
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the drifting scent of softest you breathes heavy in the moonlit air perchance we’ll meet in lonely cold by etchèd stone that marks your bed i’ll bring you flowers and my tears glinting silver, blushing red, and both i’ll set upon your chest with hope of nevermore and maybe we (while all alone within this park for restless souls) will speak of days best left forgot or yet the wind may say enough and when i leave be always sure that you and i, we never were
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