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Napoleon stared
At those infinite brown
curls.
The way some of them glowed
and the way the others simply
flowed
The way the whiteness of her neck
reminded him of that day it snowed
And the way his sharp knife
seemed to slowly corrode
and he found himself
knowing not what that bode.
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Napoleon
Poetry❞he swore he'd let her kill him a million times and a million more before he laid a finger on a single thread of the dress she wore.❞ [©2016PO]
