The Grave Of Mister

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Cold as the peaks of the haunted is the grave where he rested and paid.
Mister Owl excruciatingly resigns in mystery for reasons untold.
No call for the twilight now, no dulcet song has ever survived,
And silence deafens the weak of heart.

The trees hide, as if guilty of crimes the logical brains cannot construe.
Belief of disgust climbs in the air of foul gentle winds.
His hollow face stares blankly as it pierces my eyes.
Nowhere to hide at the second instant, only stand supposedly undaunted.

His spirit is free, yes, liberated from human chains.
Justice has yet proven its worth and dignity does it bear.
His hell awaits his sodden soul, and do I deserve a laugh after all?


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