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Sep 2016
It's the depth of night.
Not the color of the sky.
It's the length of silk.
Not the size of material.
It's the sorrow of death.
Not the sadness of the dead.
It's the thrill of pain.
Not the happiness of destruction.

It is poetry.
Not words.
lisbeth
Written by
lisbeth  boston.
(boston.)   
364
     daleo, ryn and Corvus
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