Sep 2020
Throat slit life pouring through pale hands.
The songs of shinigamis perpetually melancholy.
Ever shallow breaths, no escape. Rumba with death the floor a canvas for the evening's Mural.
The songs of shinigamis perpetually melancholy.
Ever shallow breaths, no escape. Rumba with death the floor a canvas for the evening's Mural.
This is dark poem don't lose hope though. When you're at a loss there's always hope remember that and you can walk any path.
(you know)
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