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But I already know what it's like to die,
And to pluck at my ghost's sad eternal.
I wrote an apology on the mirror,
And one forget-me-not to yours truly.
Another ideal sculpted frame
We all hate to look,
We all love to picture.
Alone we seek shadows to hide in,
As statues mark these days.
I know nothing of delicacy blossoming beneath flesh
Tickle my fancy with visions of "Perfection"
On infinite wings I fly from affection.
Syllables, images, deny self-worth
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