With weathered wings and broken feet
you crawl to me still incomplete.
I close the drapes and put out the light,
only the moon will witness your plight.
I hope that you're as happy
as you pretend to be,
so you can lather your hands in fortune
and finally, finally leave.
Sing to the suicide birds
free from their cage,
and know that all scars
in time will fade.
Time is a harsh mistress
to which we all concede to.
You lay claim to an empire now,
and I wish I could believe you.
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