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At the cusp of dusk I clutch
A cup, a flask, to see the man
The glance of death, a dance
Tango with his scythe in hand
Cut through frigid minds are frozen
And somewhat dirty.
In the early hours of his perching
Surly in his black robes lurking
Flirting with fate as one tip-toes with
Swirling emotions and bile coated teeth
One who begs with shallow sorries
But forgiveness is not what he seeks.
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