Under dark privileges met, and set alone.
Collecting thoughts that scar the sky,
And detect a crimson stain and lie.
Whipped to lashing and crying to none,
Bitten in wounds so small, so done.
From two to three, then following through,
A tired slum collects the chew.
A long thought out sentence ravages on,
Then one becomes two and so on and on.
Nevertheless to beat up an old unknown pal,
Strictly a promise set by gruesome locale.
Garden by rose bush in jargon of grey,
A lively hotel room begs visitors to stay.
Chandeliers stretch back, glistening quietly,
In glance of who speaks, ever so politely.
A mimic in time cannot ever tell,
If the past produces currents to put out to sell.
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