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Cold Limbs

Walls are rhythmically shrinking,

while my head is diabolically spinning - was I always mute?

 I’m coated in a layer of alien dust which explains the changing pigmentation of my cold limbs; 

I think I could smell the freedom - oh, wait, my smell is gone; 

I think I could taste the pub rust - oh, wait, my mouth is glued; 

I think I could touch his smoky skin - oh, wait, my fingers have melted; 

Black night flowers are twisting under the red moon - hey, Alexandra, I may not see you so soon.

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