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by
Eliot
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Poems
May 2018
Puppet
She dances to the torment
Of her soul;
Writhing. Screaming.
Tearing out her hair,
Spinning in manic circles.
Bending her body in innumerable ways.
She's dying, slowly but surely.
She knows it. But she can't defeat
That ghastly song in her mind.
An old poem I'd written a while back, before HP.
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Midnight
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