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In the coming of the Winter
I'll be biding my soul
while the sorrow awaits
and the evenings grow cold;
eager, yet uncertain,
my life was foretold-- 
by a dream I had seen
decaying,
gathering mold--
lost deep in the remnants,
to rot, to corrode;
then emerged as a chasm-- 
yet submerged in the fold,
the fold of my wit,
where I have all but sold
every bitter shred of will,
every secret I withhold--
captive to my knowledge,
like ghosts trapped by woe
and henceforth...
it is the coming... 
it is my wavering soul...
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