Two candles and an old oil lamp
Shed a dim light on the house of blood.
This manufacture folds and entwines
Towards the horizon and seeing is old.
My respiration folds and causes us to halt,
Dismay and connect.
In these days of the dreary life
We observe the station that life
Has to offer,
Internal worries brought a liking.
Often the light is blamed
As it turned tonight.
The real candlewick enlightens us
Returning to the episode of doubt.
My thick days are thinner still,
With ten and elegant ten nights.
The roasting of skin cancels the pleasure
Of a brief winter.
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