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Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 29-May 12:03:37 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 160131
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => covenant
[time] => 2010-05-25 14:19:15
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => ahhh. . . you think that you can mend me but the hour grows late. . . my collaspes have dropped altars, not so unlike yours, before where cold is a sepulcher draining the pores. . . the mathematicians are shakey an unfavorable clue the what ever is inside me is deep in my roots (for curiositys' sake. . . ) sever the shoot drink of the amputee, the black & blue truth. . . we fall from the cradle to enter the grave I peel off forgiveness the second I'm saved speechless, I'm waiting my covenant made. . . [comments] => 1 [counter] => 171 [topic] => 62 [informant] => elle [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => spiritual )
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