Poezie
Strain
1 min lectură·
Mediu
No one could trace me back to it,
The slightly atrophied deceased,
The uncut strain of mental bliss,
It’s set in stone, delusions tease.
And then you part with all that’s white,
Convey your choice, decide then hide,
One second’s worth of illness feared,
Slice through my veins, consume my dear.
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