yet your floors are still dirty.
The blood under your nails just won't vanish,
and your ring finger aches.
The bells are ringing, over that hill,
yet trudge as you might, you never will.
The iron circle that should bind you always,
is bent at three points.
We drink our chardonnay at home,
and sip on dry martinis.
The white frosted sheet we wished to dance upon,
crumbles under our feet
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