The Black Owl

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Dying Flies

Here we are,

Close to edge,

With danger not so far,

This is the end, or so it is alleged.


My soul will never rest,

Until I take your last breath,

Forever together till death,

Like a riddle said to a shibboleth.


We swallowed these lies,

Forbidden in a garden of dead flies,

Now hear their cries,

But they were never too wise.

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