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The Butterfly is dead,
Green eyes are dissheveled,
The roots of her hair are wet with tears,
The drugs the sun took take him further into death's breath,
Metal angels melt under hipsters lies,
And the words of god fall unimformed to the masses,
Swinging trees battle the elusive train of thought,
At the end, the end the river is a watery grave to suicide virgins.
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