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Carrion

Carrion: a little food for
Thought,
You make it so the sky brushes my hair with
Lofty cloud-fingers; I mean to say I
Bristle
At the sight of you and my hair stands
On end, so don't
Speak in the dead language of
"I'm sorry", and
Your heart is cloying, it smells a little like
Rotten fruit,
Because I bit that poison apple once,
And I've been asleep, and numb to
Your promises,
Ever since




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