37d. Where The Butterflies Go To Die

Forever is a forgotten word
She had the skin for silver, he the skin for gold,
But these rings are just new blots of black,
To surround flesh and my empty bones.
I'm taking my leave from these days,
Where I began I'm sure to end.

 It brings me higher,
Takes me lower,
Without you.


Laying by me in the sand.

The End

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