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It speaks familiar words, this ghost of pride bereft of all it had surmised; no rhyme or reason unto its own accord
Soft hymns of fate fall short their own innate value, wrought with seething dissonance and disdain; but they're never spoken
Clenched fists, eyes with lonely souls, hearts with sullen cries of hope; they unfold without remorse nor splendid candor
All things left behind, intentions fall short of their meaning; once again, romance finds such morose yet somber, gleaming demise
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