Her love is exorbitance. Her foolish hope is sin. The stars taken what she gaveth away: her hidden dreams, her unspoken motives, her innocence. She holds now sympathy, but no respect, like clay to mold while the sand slipped through her fingers. This cannot keep her warm at night, nor protect her from her fright. So she drops her chin and sobs for more. Unfortunately, she must wait. That is her penance.
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