This is where we laid our head,
an old forgotten lined bed,
rife with stones worn to flints,
like time itself,
a knife adrift.
Sharp with time,
sharp with memory,
a cut,
a show,
a spiteful mummery.
This is where we laid our head, an old forgotten lined bed, rife with stones worn to flints, like time itself, a knife adrift. Sharp with time, sharp with memory, a cut, a show, a spiteful mummery. |
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Comments
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"I'm going to make out in the coat room, don't eat my chicken."
"That's going on your tombstone."
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Indeed. ಠ_ಠ
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