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My Friend

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My friend is a flower,
Stunted by the early frost.
Taken just after the final hour.
Taken, but never lost.

Though blooming buds eventually decay,
And thorns may prick the skin.
Those flowers in spring will sway
Eventually withering from within.

But I only see my friend at night,
She cannot play in day.
She takes me to a land of white,
But I can never stay.

Though at her memory sadness may vie
She will never, ever truly die.




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