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The Idle "Help"
Roll up her sleeves
And check her wrists
She pleads to leave
Without resist
This God damned place
To end the pain
And just erase
The moon in wain
She is that moon
With half hidden
Darker than noon
Same half ridden
Of small white lies
Though not too small
Reveal her thighs
A desperate call
For mere savior
Is clearly seen
Red ink gravures
Covered by jeans
The cry was heard
By only one
Who in turn cured
Her endless run
From all the hurt
And lasting ache
Now to be curt
He closed the break
Inside her soul
Ceased all her tears
And made her whole
With no more fears
For just a bit
Who might he be?
This perfect fit
Who set her free
But with false hopes
Of joy, somewhat
Much like to trope
Not drink, but cut
With right intent
But a wrong sense
To death he sent
A poor girl hence
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