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Autumn Comes.
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Feb. 24, 2003 ]
1:08 PM
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This world is not for me.
Wretched echoes like so many leaves
Cast down from the height of splendour
Ravaged through autumnal burning ire.
That coiled desire winding, sprung.
Into a jagged edge that parries
Each dying day with the multiplying
Pain of each seasonal slaughter.
Quiet is a multitude of sins.
Hiding, stalking, a ravenous beast
Hibernating in cold sullen caverns
Awaiting a spring that sometimes never begins.
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wax
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wane
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