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Momento Mori Loading...
Tokens of your grief are kept safe in sacred places.
We are tucked tightly under beds
or framed and hung on ornate walls.
Decades of our stories are
woven into floral wreaths of faded locks,
and our final smiles are cast in plaster
begging to be remembered by anyone who cares.
We are spirits of sickness, phantoms of forgotten pain.
We are the voice that echoes from the shadows of a vacant basement.
You may forget our names, our faces, our tales of woe,
but we reside here regardless.
The dead will always tend to hide in the darkest places
of your wandering mind.
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Blackout Poem of "Cubicles" by My Chemical RomanceLoading...