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charcoal.
May be I know, may be I don’t,
I sit under the open sky closed.
The desert extending in my throat
is brimming through my heart walls.
Everything is made of charcoal,
i can’t seem to find the peacock.
© Arcane
I sit under the open sky closed.
The desert extending in my throat
is brimming through my heart walls.
Everything is made of charcoal,
i can’t seem to find the peacock.
© Arcane
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