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Literature Text
Her cold winter fingers
circled around my throat,
how bitter she was,
at ineptitude.
(her's or my own?)
Obsidian eyes
bore through my soul,
denied even a whisper,
or a thought.
She demands
only death
for without my words
the muse has nothing
left.
circled around my throat,
how bitter she was,
at ineptitude.
(her's or my own?)
Obsidian eyes
bore through my soul,
denied even a whisper,
or a thought.
She demands
only death
for without my words
the muse has nothing
left.
I friend of mine has a blog titled "November Muse" and that in itself struck me as so poetic, I knew I needed to write something about it.
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