In this chilled year I rest
Flipping upon ponies
'Bout the merry-go round.
I am so lost for words, for strength, for faith.
My wrongs tilt hazily above your heads.
I will sigh.
I do try.
I can cry.
And while I gaze through mists,
Gaze at faces drip-dropped with tears and pained slices,
I wish for a muse of sorts.
And while you sip your poisons,
She comes to
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