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Sonnet for Emily, A Too-Good Girl

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My sanguine saint, how smeared you safety switch
Your feet of clay dried out in anger’s heat
A golden head, dead to suspicion’s itch
The bees swarm to your loving nectar sweet
A lamb had no voice to his master’s blade
But blood should not be drawn for you to know
Of selfish cloak, you need not be afraid
Un-dig your nails from skin, let the scab grow
In people’s pain you find yourself a use
An admirable trait in one so young
But loosen, at the very least, the noose
So a tune for your own sake can be sung
But if you do not listen here at all
Tell me, so I may dive to catch your fall



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