There is nothing laudable in the dread silence, in the heartache, the loneliness despicable/ The thorn is the last dependable friend after the bottle has broken/ A wrenching rending leaving a void that is filled once again by despicable silence/ It only fosters deep regret when you hear the echo of the emptiness left behind/ Is the bloody bramble better in sunshine than in darkness?/ It does not matter if you are left alone to tend the wound
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