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Death At The Pilgrim
The next poet Was called to the floor. Cold came crashing in, It was me. Heart pounding On its bone door. I now stand before you in time honoured Bardic tradition You're waiting waiting To hear Words that shine like diamonds. To hear A prhase to keep To hear A meaning deep, sincere Yet oblique. To see My demons laid bare. To see The soul-reavers appear And For you to taste my faer. Your wishes unfilled Soundless and shame filled I now leave the floor.
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