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This virgin solitude Like being deserted in A crowd, suddenly Their arms rip and crease The space Like gnarled trees - Limbs reaching until I cower away. - The blinds prism light Making our room a postcard Or bleeding it Like a painting left in the rain Whispering or shouting It is all futile to wake you - I am dwelling in the shadow Of the perfection I was in your dreams. - Facial expressions of objects Or posters on the wall - The look of deadly sin While a shoulder to cry on That you will never see Because you shine too much For me to wake.
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