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Gothik


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Those dark orbs upon your eyes

That cling, tell of demise

Where there is none.

They carve an individual stamp

That turns your skin so damp

Where tears did fall.

This cratered scar, a pink

That tints your skin

Where makeup reigns.

And your credibility,

Your own humanity,

Are gone with your compassion:

Only fools would wish themselves calamity.

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