Thy know love to be but a splinter,
sewn of baleful hands.
With each stitch sewn in thine own heart,
thy hemorrhage's further into nothing more,
than a boy of sick wood.

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Wooden boy,
must thee animate amongst the lonely roads?
The road's lain of fire once before?
Road's left to seasons,
turned memorials?
{boy} If everything is to burn in the sun,
then it is in everything,
to be seen in the light.

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