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Cloven Dark

Tags: dark, gothic

To the ends of the cloven dark 
not of earth her bosom locks 
from her uterus well worn 
where the night is born
 
as the torrent of winter calls  
rising of the tempest beat 
beneath the cold Medina walls 
a place I can sleep

dreaming of flowers and trees 
with an innocent heart 
of my passion and cankering chair 
to the ends of the cloven dark  

 

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