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She is shallow as a pond, cluttered
with guilt, regret. It floats in her
like scum and discourages any casual
swimmer or bather.
She is stagnant and stale, an empty vault.
Long since stripped of anything worthy
or valuable, when discovered she is
She has that way about her, a fine porceline
doll in the toy cabinet of a princess. She
was never meant to be played with, or touched
so she sit's imaculate, clean, alone.
Caught up quick in this dillusion,
I stumbled 'round my minds seclusion.
What I thought safe, the gates were ruined
And the dead kept pouring in.
"Is it not enough to torment
my every single waking moment,
Every time I blink, a second
I see and feel your agony.
"When guilt is great, for sin committed,
When no hope's left to be acquited,
When all around, your dead are seated,
Nothing's left but dread regret.
"It was I the fires stoking
that threw in piles of you burning,
And it was I, with others laughing
that left the mess that's here today.
"Now all that's left are spines in ashes,
and we hunt down hidden caches,
And even though we struck the matches
we hope that there might be one left.
"If in that day we heard a fool,
say lines or books, they had a soul,
And that from their lifeless coals
a fleet of ghost's would spring.
"If he said that vengeful authors,
paying us back for their work's slaughter,
would haunt our days and steal our laughter
We would have burnt him too."