The Fall

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I remember  A swallow gliding across  The moon's rising shadow  That falls at the feet of my bedstead. I look at the glow and the Raven black sky And wonder of what's to come.   I remember.
His kind was not meant to dream—no, that gift Was reserved for others.  Not for him. But he did dream—horribly vivid, raw Dreams of blood and triumph and ichor.
The Fall is a feeling, not a time or place.    It is orange and brown, and the nips of wind blowing.   It's broccoli and cheese, and the rustle of leaves 
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