There you stood in the moor, the twilight gently caressing your mute figure,
in the desolation you stood, weeping.. the tears running down your
morose face, I stood from afar, your beauty enthralling, your tears
saddening. The trees bend and contort to offer you shelter from the
harsh winter, you stood beneath their canopy, I stand, freezing, in
the night, wishing I could feel your skin next to my, warm, beautiful,
cruel.. I felt your death, enthralled, wearing... your pale dead.. skin.
mask.. you spoke only through your mute pantomine: I lied..
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