I must be dead

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Do you remember the night
we saw, my soul, that soft
summer morning round a
turning in the path, the
carcass on a bed scattered
with sticks and stones, it's legs in
the air like a woman
in need burning it's wedding
poisons like a fountain with it's
rhythmic sobs. I could hear it
clearly flowing with a long
murmuring sound, but I touch
my body in vain to find the wound.
I am the vampire of my
own heart, one of the
great outcasts condemned
to eternal laughter who can no
longer smile. Am I dead?
I must be dead.

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