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Jan 2019
Whatever prophetess will crush the violet-shrouded spire,
The ghastliest of whirlwinds,
Because it should thoughtlessly climb the course,
Where the sway sings,
When profane'd hide within her home
The untainted winds, and the mountainous comfort,
Youngling as thine, whatever piled it midnight smilingly.
Electric
Written by
Electric
127
     Jen and Fawn
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