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deadboy Mar 2018
No rosy death sings her,
For mine eyes, which furtive on'ers linger.
All abandon, blackness bled let,
From feeble hands on this dead cigarette

Naught but blood…
Staining flower buds.

Now I hear them softly, solemn speak.
These hollow, sallow corpses which creak,


...Breathing-- Singing, this new death.

— The End —