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Godsend

With grace, my mother, can you play the harp?
Like an angle to a saint?
I feel so lonely, the loved falling far from grasp

Dei gratia
Heal the wounds that cut so deep
To never cease, feeling such misery, so real
To utter with a lisp, so subtle
Ab initio ab finem

I kiss your forehead
You clasp my palms
The uterus from which gave birth
Stares withered and supine

Hide the cries you hear
Stripping you naked
Wipe the sweat from your brow
Weep the given drought

The shrouding ov the light
Death is your godsend
Upon your final breath, the skin upon my arms rigors
Deus misereatur de profundis quantum libet
Taedium vitae esto perpetua
Written by Satyr
Published
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