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Rest upon your chamber,
Fall down to haunting slumber;
Rise not to see the light of day,
But the last moments before the darkness'd decay.
A cold enough to freeze me whole,
Yet not rival the breeze of the winter Fool,
Chill me down to my spine,
Take from me what's near but never mine.
The icy winds won't soon fade,
Yet one can best it, the heat that I've made;
The heat of brethren's fissures and turmoil,
A fight within the mother soil .
What is he is never I,
What his damnation is far from my madness by;
He sought to give justice that he is a Father,
He can't even calm a raging child and a crying mother.
These words aren't meant to be spoken,
If it was, then it wouldn't have been written;
Alas, a naive child retires again,
*With his horns half kept and his words half spoken.
A lone flower in a bed of thorns and bodies
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