The blanket of you is over me- doubling as a shroud, You down my speak into wordlessness. I gather at your wake, with all the other dead harbringers that go to you, to give their ground. You are the lady of the lake, you are the lady of the drown, the place where truthful aspiring happy speak, is swallowed under ground. I wish I had never consented to this tomb of an embrace. MB
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