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These steps
careless whispers.
Treading slowly
clinging from their own haste
these steps now,
now here I was.
Her death was an afterbirth of colour.
With tears and the rust
on wrecked machines,
with a black wooden frame
alas with a crooked name,
and with the face
of an art maturing
she left whispering...
here I am;
this life is just ink on the thin red line.
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