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My sweet poppy

Your milk it seems now was warm and wet

whispering, wanting me to forget

how you threw me to the ground and held me there with

what was your frailty

 

I will not bend to your memory yet

so long I have the strength to blood let

my mind of every last ounce of

what was your cruelty

 

I've moved on I fear

sans shedding a tear for leaving behind

what was your memory

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Written by
william-fredrick-bissette
American
Published
Jun 8, 2013
Lines·Words
11·74
Permission

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