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Click hereShe has traveling eyes,
That wander through my morals,
The myriad of crosses,
She makes as she spirals.
Her traveling eyes,
Run through my heart,
The crosses she makes,
Are where churches start.
Sepulchers grow in the crosses of chance.
Crosses where her eyes chose to dance.
My morals are a dark and fertile field,
Where my emotions bury their yield.
A rhapsody of angels
Honor the dead.
Her traveling eyes....
It is those that I dread.