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Jul 2013
Her life is my nightmare,
tears pouring from heaven for her,

she, I see is cold and tired and scared,
in the mornings she is chained to her bed,

the snow infecting her womb,
now, old, futile and meaningless,

and yet when I reach out to touch her,
I feel a cold screen,

if I could only wake her,
requiem for a dream.
glaze
Written by
glaze
418
   maybella snow
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