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The Play.

What was expected I didn’t know,
what it was I could not show.
But it comes as naturally as breathing,
as I go on sweetly heaving.
A blushed cheek falls atop a pillow,
to the music of a deathly cello.
Unaware of what is there,
of all this love I was not ware.
Standing by the lonely light,
of a lamp in the dark, blue, night.



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