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#bridesmaking
In the swirling zephyr, The grass dances weakly I heard an escort,– Awaits my way to the Wolf Hall. A triumphant sinister;— My broken pleasure,— How lovely to see thy scraps again.. Such a bounty hunter What the gods want now? Doth not turn me around!— Doth not hang me! If thou loose my ties,— Thou wilt be a murderer of all vines! Spare me!— I am not thy prey; I am not one of Greek's peccant, Please, off loathing my purity! This predator devoured me.. The ****** of his dark matter, stabbed me.. The mob held me captive,— by net traps The culprit lies next to me— Acted one alike raw; then I was sacked, I felt the bethel was mocked,— But my Lord won't despise me. A paralyzed arrest screeched me I was stroke— by a vermin quenched for meat.. Thou art the most cherished It is still me.. Scattered with mud, Dressed in a blanket; Hoping to kiss thee Bend for belief,— and not forgiveness Wherefor thy body shivers? Thy cup is condensing, Lips ill-looking; Red flames changing blue— Am I still the hue? I sensed— Thou fell into the pit My shreds, thy lust The roots art on the tip of thy nails! An ancestral plague poisoning whoever sits,— And bridesmaking is a promiscuous habit— To grasp a braided hair,— for an accessory Behold, the lineage of romantic paintings, Whence the bonds turn to heist Looting innocence and staying in history...
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May 8, 2020
May 8, 2020 at 4:13 AM UTC
fheyra
"Resurrection"– The **** of Thrones
In the swirling zephyr, The grass dances weakly I heard an escort,– Awaits my way to the Wolf Hall. A triumphant sinister;— My broken pleasure,— How lovely to see thy scraps again.. Such a bounty hunter What the gods want now? Doth not turn me around!— Doth not hang me! If thou loose my ties,— Thou wilt be a murderer of all vines! Spare me!— I am not thy prey; I am not one of Greek's peccant, Please, off loathing my purity! This predator devoured me.. The ****** of his dark matter, stabbed me.. The mob held me captive,— by net traps The culprit lies next to me— Acted one alike raw; then I was sacked, I felt the bethel was mocked,— But my Lord won't despise me. A paralyzed arrest screeched me I was stroke— by a vermin quenched for meat.. Thou art the most cherished It is still me.. Scattered with mud, Dressed in a blanket; Hoping to kiss thee Bend for belief,— and not forgiveness Wherefor thy body shivers? Thy cup is condensing, Lips ill-looking; Red flames changing blue— Am I still the hue? I sensed— Thou fell into the pit My shreds, thy lust The roots art on the tip of thy nails! An ancestral plague poisoning whoever sits,— And bridesmaking is a promiscuous habit— To grasp a braided hair,— for an accessory Behold, the lineage of romantic paintings, Whence the bonds turn to heist Looting innocence and staying in history...
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