It's shell lies empty
A forsaken frame of unwanted indulgence
There is no fury in these bones
That once wept with broken marrow
That shattered under the pressure of unequivocated passion.
Love is dead
There is no home for the broke and weary
No solace for the spilt
The halls of forlonged exposure echo
With the footsteps of the damned.
There is a resurrection.
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