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The Miserable Mistress

Her touch is as soft as snow

But she has no soul

Her voice is elegantly woven together

And the wool has no meaning

She is the prettiest of them all

Nevertheless, she is alone

Every man she has fallen for

Becomes more desirable than her

She doesn’t think with brain 

So, she’s called a harlot

She just a teenager going through a lot

She wants to dance in a Scarlett dress

However, she only dreams this 

In a somber rest

Published inSorrow

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