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A confused Mote

Angelina for the love of the Stars,

wrists feel listless

chilling self belief delusional

your wardrobe has claw marks.

A World apart?

I wonder where you keep your screams boxed in?

surely you are not rewinding

the "Cry of the Banshee" again?

Abba he indelibly forsakes

your funereal  fatigue,

for your score years has

gone to seed.

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Written by
topaz-oreilly
English
Published
Dec 22, 2012
Lines·Words
12·57
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