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02 April 2015 @ 02:02 am
The Long Winter  
This winter, my shins were splintered by cold,
with plenty of envy for the brave and the old,
the sentries had sent me letters o plenty,
pleading me to stop being so fucking friendly,
with the same old diseases, pleasures, and husks,
the fact that if pleases me to rush back to dust.
I sent them an empty envelope in reply,
to say: i'm happy, get at me, i'll fly or i'll die.