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The pitter patter, the midnight batter,
Concoctions of cardiac clatter.
The seeping, weeping ashes sweep into the sleeping--
creeping sweatily into dreams.
Ashen clashes of bittersweet evening flings crashes my mind,
desperately weening from easily insane.
Turn to over,
asleep in my bed,
drowning in ashes,
reaping the peeping distaste of sick.
In fringe death comes to conflict my life,
while it hangs by a needle--
attached by my skin at the syringe.
And then it happens, as my heart pitter patters away...
I will adapt.
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