Death doesn't love me anymore,
But once it did
When I stood at the threshold of the bolted door.
Were the groans of toads louder than Id imagined?
Or was my soul too full of dead flies?
Death will love me again,
Again soon.
When bleeding stories have drenched themselves
In the swamp's waters,
Full of toads' groans.
Ill unlock the door at last
And be greeted by dead flies.
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