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Terror On a Clock's Face

Robed figures begin inscribing
my name on the epitaph,
as I kneel,
always alone, always in pain,
withered here,
Do I end this life,
and deprive them of their right?
Terror on a clock's face.
Aloof mortality is distances away.
As my enchained arms  
prepare to forfeit
for my written words,
before a God
whom I incriminate
as the blasphemer of my Dreams.

16 Feb 07

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Not a clue what you're doing here, sorry.
 — Isabelle5

isabelle's right. it's a bit much
 — unknown