Lead to the river
midsummer, I waved a V of black swans.
On with hope to the
grave, all through red September with skies fire-paved,
I begged you appear
like a thorn for the Holy Ones.
Cold was my soul, untold was my pain.
I faced when you left me a rose in the rain.
So I swore to the razor that never enchained,
Would your dark nails of
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