| I’m unaware of a response
|
| From my errant dark red soul
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| Too deep to be spoken aloud
|
| I bury a word right in my heart
|
| Frost etched the tall windows
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| I have been cold for a long time
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| Borne upon winter’s shoulders
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| There are wolves here, many of them
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| I am staggered at their hatred of me
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| I lie in complete fear
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| I call the moths to tend me
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| I forget the form of my sins
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| And drained of motion, the air itself avoids me
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| And void of notion, unable to perceive
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| Mouth barely open, almost fearing to breathe
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| And there is no other sound at all
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| Just there, to the left, his shadow rose
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| I always knew he was coming
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| Takes the vacant chair beside me
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| With golden hands he moved the hair from my face |