Scarr C.
I think a strange thing slithered by, and now the grass seems greener
For the worlds about me take a plunge, suspended by a tether.
I hearkened then a thousand drums - this folly of my heart?
Do I implore to flay the mortar sheathes that compose his façade?
O how he writhes at Venus' toe; whilst I brood in folds of grief
Why do I pluck at cupid's wings, dispelling its belief?
I think a strange thing slithered by; into my veins it wove
I think it frightens me because
I think that thing was love.
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