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Secret lives
Belong to the inhuman,
Restless beds under sleepless rains.
Deeds that they unveil and devour
Whilst they order the others to rest
In peace.
As the shadows lurk amongst the deadened tombs,
A midnight flutter of cloth,
The confluence of the unearthly.
Yet, as they circle and shun (with hooded eyes),
The luminescence of a perfect circle,
A desperate boy nurses himself
And beckons,
Only to find that he is the devil who dwells
In the white grave.

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