Lament those poor sweet pixies
living in my veins,
kept captive in capillaries until
they made their stains;
who, one night, were downed in wine,
drowned in oxygen;
who found their release,
yet surfaced again.
Lament the gentle spirits who once
had only wanted
to nourish the fields, but
became the haunted.
Lament the loss, lament the night,
lament what remains:
lingering lines and loud lies
now plaguing my veins.
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