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Sep 2015
My heart, it's hands
Reaching for his soul
My wrists snap, retreat back
I guess now we'll never know
Hung up, strung out
Just searching for a sign
Horror, misanthrope  
Astrological pantomime
Visions clear, so near
Like vines we intertwined
Incompatible, at the core
Who was feeding me those lines?
Jane Lame
Written by
Jane Lame
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