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gothic poetry

l'odeur du s'est levée si faux, les épines si vraies
j'ai moulé le monde
la fille, art de thou viennent pour mourir
tristement parlant
le poing serré simple soulevé et préparent
je suis fevered
robuste, humble-abeille de somnoler
pour venir tellement bientôt à ceci a imaginé l'obscurité
j'ai vu que vous hunched et tremblant sur les pierres

 



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