Mine is a lackadaisical lunacy
An errant printing press
The parchment worn and curling
A right quixotic mess,
Without your hands of tar, dear
Embracing fast my throat
My words fall all dismembered
To phrases you'd emote.
In light of fallen oak trees
Where hung our brunt and pain
The night is weeping softly
A wraith, ill-gotten gain,
But sift here through the
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