September 2, 2008
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He walks the nights alone
with hair as thin as thread,
sewing a blanket of lies.
And skin as pale as a moth,
fluttering by the light of hate.
His eyes reveal his depression
that only he understands.
Lips are dry and cracked,
as much as the desert of human sanity.
Clothes as torn and tattered as the truth
he has not yet justified.
Blood and mind are just as poisoned
as promises he has made.

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