tragic

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idk

tragic

Looking out seeing the edge,

always saking the sound,

never looking back the rain stands still at her house,

treansending a dawning break of spring,

a time for people to go out and see the sameful killings

that the people stand before you,

always wondering why she waited at the enterence of the noon moon,

wanting the enterence of the sea,

she's waiting for me all this time,

the sounds of weeping, coming from inside the room,

crying for my safety,

all i have to say is that im sorry for what has gone on,

the mixture is rising when everything around it keeps on dieing,

i'm sorry for what i've done,

but there is a new moon rising in the shadows,

all i have is you memories in a dark cold place in my mind,

in the room right over there, in the harding, freezing, turning into stone,

leding me to belive it was my own fault,

letting you get stabbed in the back, by the man in black,

It was her Murder

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Poetry is what is lost in translation.

Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

briannawilliams’s Poems (2)

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