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Rated: 13+ · Prose · Nature · #2314751
The dead still sleep. Written for Cramp
Beneath One Distant Spring
The dead are always cold.
They sleep but never dream.
I among them hearing the song of new birth.
The flowers bloom with my death.
The worms enjoy me.
Beneath one distant spring

The dead remember her touch.
I crave in terror her gaze.
Nothing but darkness in the ground.
Songs of time that begins and never ends.
The cycle of life.
Beneath one distant spring.
Melodies of life give dreams to none who are dead.
Only the cold.
Death's Touch.

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