Atop her thorny throne- The moth as a queen of the quiet conquest. My hand has been scarred from such sickly sentiment, A nail buried within the layer of stone and silk. A giant sleeps within the plains, A litter of crackling graves and crusted crosses From her spine comes the line of grief, From her cloak comes the cost of parting. Merely mothers to our fallen trees- Our regret of clinging comes in the quickening anguish of the end.
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