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Sorrow pays tomorrow but blooms such pretty roses
Babies turn to angels
Angels burn as babies—
Old women sit living with the
Horror of everything that
Ever did and didn’t do—
For the babies she brought…
Or the babies she bought
But most of all the baby she
Never fought very hard for
That sits wearing a slipping mask
Well past midnight
After all the starlight and 50 year-lovers
Have all...