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Poetry
Top voted Poetry
#483051voted by our readers
By Anonymous
Thin shiny black hands circulate the face Of one nocturnal pan; racing my own Unrealistic vision of time, my pace Condemning me. Oh woe, I should have known. How the trees mo...
Thin shiny black hands circulate the face Of one nocturnal pan; racing my own Unrealistic vision of time, my pace Condemning me. Oh woe, I should have known. How the trees mo...
