Faceless
Love, this patient fiend,
it's hate from which I've weaned.
The gods are just or else they must
the dried up crust of unproved trust,
and I devise a pit of lies.
In faith, the skies are filled with sighs
for hope has left my sight
and nothing here is bright.
it's hate from which I've weaned.
The gods are just or else they must
the dried up crust of unproved trust,
and I devise a pit of lies.
In faith, the skies are filled with sighs
for hope has left my sight
and nothing here is bright.
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