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Jan 2015
Her wound bleeds fresh when she breathes too deep.
Her heart is hers to keep or let seep
Beneath the earth... Beneath the grave...
beneath the trees... there it lays!

Cool to the touch, and clutch by a corpse.
Her heart: eternally frozen in quartz.
Move on, my dear... he's dead.
Jerome Austin Johnson
511
   Ariel Baptista and Magic poet
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