No silken sheet, no downy rest on the cold on its breasts on a hoary bed of granite gray beneath time’s decay with a frost of spectral lace no waking hour, nada a final breath in this solemn space just a slow murmur of quiet breath ceasing with a hollowed heart with the bone of the pillow sharp and cold muffled by the sound of old cashmere disturbing not, those who sleep.
Rated for Everyone
Old Cashmere
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