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★★★★★ (7)
Rated: ASR · Poetry · Religious · #1047763

...futile belief...



A Sort of Religion


There is no horror in mourning
The low plaid shaven range.
With stars, looming and bright,
We pause, then resume the tender disease.

Take the news to strong, staunch fans -
Those who read prayers -
And ensure the belted apprentices
Will convict one voice vying for perfection.



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