They were all gone. The light was calm.
The timepiece bashed with hate.
‘T was too early. Or… so late?
Nails bleeding in the palm.
Few stars had jostled with a nudge
to hear their shadows spread on mould.
It was so hush. So cold.
Nails ready to adjudge
a sorrow, a sigh. Thorns whisking by.
The bells of rustling rumors ring.
Tears felt to the ground and spring.
Nails all alone detach from sky,
and stars shall sing:
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