i want there to be
no branch for the bitter wind,
no refuge for the melancholy day,
only perfumed night guarded by roses.
let there be dead eyes among the living,
living blood poured over gravestones,
reaping years of marrowed soil.
search the crow's nest,
find my heart there.
know the thorn which wounds me
in its defense of me, wounding me,
fist tight clenched.
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