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shots of my mother,
found upstairs in an old book,
pressed like a red rose.
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many tried to copy
the pout, the breasts, the allure
none chose the despair
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things done and not done
twists and turns and trails of smoke
how things might have been
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It’s done – the deed, oh!
Now she tries to protect you,
"Jack, Jack… I’m waiting."
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unbeknown to her
she would star in a dark tale
sadly her last role