She spreads her eye,

and sheds a single tear,

to taste the life,

of death inside,

and night by night,

and every year,

to make it right,

the given lie,

though every word is lost,

there is a certain cost,

to cast away the fear,

which seemed to be so dear,

for every broken soul,

there is a mender too,

or every heart that’s whole,

a bladed blended roux,

if death led me to you,

and breath doth me exume,

then tell me that you’re true,

and I will make you room.


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