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Eros, son of Ares and Aphrodite With shattered bow, and broken hearts in tow Weeping, among the silence, Of once beating hearts, No longer enchanted by love’s arrows. War plagued that day,
Tortured, by DemonsOn their descent, these men bornOf wicked way, surgeThrough scorching pits, whilst begging,For any form, of mercy
For Curt. His eyes were an offset blue, Identical to the unyielding forces of the tempestuous sea and the churning influence of the clouds. Or were they an unpolished silver,
Glad It’s Over. Because it was closer than the celebrities for me. He died. Then he died. Then he died. And it all piled up.
If I could speak to a dead man, I would tell him what I think dead men want to hear. I would tell him that his body drowned and he was branded a martyr from the second he refused to resurface.