On this threshold of aborted dreams,
I sing this dirge.
The splattering syllables
Of a constricted heart.
The rhythm is soulful
And the lines without rhymes
As I move behind this procession
To a fraction of my burial.
This little part of me,
Being laid in an infant grave
Amidst solemn whimpering,
I clothe in this sacrifice of words,
I rock with this glorious lullaby
To an early eternal sleep.
Good night!
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