Dressed in a crown of thorn and fake,
swings a lone heart in its wake,
and beats but out, and never in.
Too falls the mirror from its frame,
asks for answers, for my name,
but never sole has truth once been.
What's left to do comes slowly clear,
I bury all that I held dear;
today my fate shall finally rest.
So take I all that they once gave,
choke it down to empty grave,
six feet 'neath flesh inside my chest.
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