Perfection is so far away
Yet so near I can feel it
Falling for you
Such an easy thing
Fickle is my poor soul
Underestimate the will of it
You shall not
To the core
Suffering
Questions called out
Answers not found
Nothing left yet
but to hide.
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The heart dies a slow death, shedding each hope like leaves. Until one day there are none.
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Inverno houra Roselia
Community Member |
