I was nothing, but the dying flame of a candle, burning out,
You were forgotten, by the seaside, being tossed, turning about,
Spun-wool-threads were soon unraveling, quick...
A lonely woman uncertain, if living's a solid brick...
In a court, in a cage, four walls, makes me sick...
No windows, no justice, only lies, and dirty tricks...
But behind those blurred eyes, and below this fragile mind,
There is a hole within my pocket, and quicksand in the grind.
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