Out the window winds the april spring.
It sings a tune of long and sorrow sadly splinter.
It flickers through the looking glass as knives, it chills.
In its whisper I can feel the hallow, I listen to the void.
I can hear the fine whispered line of the Lister.
With a grin I read its deadly sober tune.
It looks simple and weirdly sublime:
It purely states that we are - completely -
Out of time.
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