I imagine her blood on your sheets, for too often her sacrifice is unnoticed by your arrogance. Daily she has made love's secret stand, but her endeavour doth fail.
You shall not renew your duty, for conscience shall not your slumber disturb. So then none we beg shall carry her ashes to the land of sleepers. Rather she mumbles and weeps along to the barren moors.
She has from you on bended knee requested a unique tender word, only to receive abrupt thunder and night - swollen humour. Her journey is but the keen and ill-judged actions of a whimsical virgin. Soon you will be but a memory the tally of jagged and girted bees.
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