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The Snake

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The words of the lords,
Which fluttered like flies,
Sit now on my shoulders
Without betrayal, or vain
Yet pondered, so much itching
To fit the agreeable mold

You hear them here, everywhere
Their presence bades comfort,
Felt so lighter than a feather
Cursed so shattered like a sin,
Those words, so powerful
Somehow tossed to our despair

They say
We all know you speak true,
Yet we don't understand,
How how the fire in you
Can crackle up your skin
Why you let it slither near
To bite a dwindling heart.



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