When a Wanderess has been caged, or perched with her wings clipped, She lives like a Stoic, She lives most heroic, smiling with ruby, moistened lips once her cup of Death is welcome sipped.
To hide away from the world whose loveless heart has gone astrayand its inhabitants what could be a safer place than my imagination?
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To hide away from the world whose loveless heart has gone astrayand its inhabitants what could be a safer place than my imagination?
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