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Click hereTime never stays. Her butcher's hands are red;
without an apron she can't wipe them clean,
nor does she care. She just looks straight ahead
with in her wake the hours that have been,
the dusty remnants of the broken years
that lose their keepsakes to time's spouse, decay -
the dead leaves crumble. Your most painful tears
are but a mirage that will fade away.
Time's spouse - decay. I'm gonna spend a some time with your writing, Demure.