she speaks in mist-like whispers
Frost-Bitten Limbs
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Walking the rows Of aged and sunken stone I came across a large patchwork feral cat Laying at its feet Was the still, small b... -
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The room fills with bugs As I struggle to write by lamplight Summer’s heat can drive one to kill Or at least mortally wound I th...
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There’s blood on these hands And death in the air I’ve been gone for so long That I can’t recall Where it was I came from O, but I ha...
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