9pm
9pm  freeform stories
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tomekrynkiewicz
tomekrynkiewicz ace lover of tea and aesthetic
Autoplay OFF   •   2 years ago
a poem about two deaths
far away from each other

9pm

his voice is loud even as he dies,

no longer a blinding roar of noon, but a death song to my eyes;

spilling blood all over the blue velvet of the skies;

crimson martyr, burnt beneath the cooling dome

just like me

in the end

alone

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