LYRIC

This sweetness that surrounded us, and bled with us…
We touched it, and it smelt far worse than weeds…

I have touched winds…
I have touched sorrows…
(I touched the devil once…)

… And I have touched the past…

It was like the love of thorns, like the beauty of dead summer.
But I, the lurker, the carrier of wounds outlived.
It.
I have left now. (Have I not?)

The thorns embraced us,
While resemblance dragged us further down.
It burried our minds.

None shall outlive this rhyme…

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