swaying to the soundsĀ
between the melancholic beams
you've never seen the ways
of those cold neighbors' screams
while we're awaiting on
this neverland to promise us
the turning points will count
on our everlasting lust
savouring the flavour
coming forth from out the lips
crimson coloured, candy-coated
breath that he sips
needing to become, or belong,
I doubt you must prefer
the mourning mind above us
which belongs to that of her
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