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why do I love it's weight on my neck
though I, just a flame
and she, thankfully dead
why does it beat, beat me
though she is only zest
and I, just a man on this journey
I love that she wears it again;
though I, merely a god.
we wield not the clock,
or its hand would grip our smile
as a mortal wound...
we wield golden the timeless, the candle and the pen...
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