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Pale On The Shenandoah

In my gothic poetic melancholia, listening to the whispers  
in my Shenandoah. From the graves of my ancestors,  
picking crow, weeping cello. In my solemnity of madness.  
As I lay me down to feast through the cobble street gates,
piquing blood's puree. The fluid of my being and milk  
of essence. As we bond in the deep mahogany, my pale
countenance.  
Written by PaleSkies
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