These days I can't even pretend
Lord please find an angel to send
Lord please tell me my death is on pend
I've been lying on this bed called,"being suicidal," that I am now failing to stand. ...
LADY, in thy proud eyes
There is a weary look,
As if the spirit we know through them
Were daunted with rebuke
To think that the heart of man henceforth
Is read like a read book.
Lady, in thy lifted face
The solitude is sore;
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