| Contrasting the words |
| Like a secret, a conspicous little tid that everyone knows, like my heart dutifully given to my religion and up from the destruction a single bloom grows. The words are stolen and leaving me foresaken. They are the warm burning tears that are like bitter virgin snow and the fear in the quivering hypocrite. It is an undying devotion to my fair dark-haired soulmate. And the truth of me and my rival who I hold all of my blessings. Dote upon me, my forgiving melodies-borne of ink! Oh what can compare to a poem? |
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