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by
Eliot
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Poems
May 5
The crow
I don't read,
because you took my eyes,
with well thought lies,
you dug at my heart like something you despise,
Darling, I could have called, you
underneath the blood you hated and so spewed,
darling, my darling, my blood curdling darling,
Can you see me, or hear me,
am I still breathing, I think
I am thinking, and maybe I am smiling,
Thought I'd take you for miles,
or walk them endlessly,
but the dirt and six feet is in what you envelope me,
Final letters written without a care,
I see your back, and I am either dead,
or I stare.
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