a damask laden, bathed in echo
n' as summer's intrigue begins to choke,
your vanishing voice brings helpless sorrow.
For I'm equally incapable,
whittled in pickled merriment,
the cigarettes reek mire thin,
simmering films with charred confidence.
Aren't you adept? Wouldn't you help?
Or construct ire, soaked in skin.
In thin misprint, evoking carious squint,
now slain within this abandoned hint.
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