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By lonely windows
See the damned at twilight sitting
by their lonely windows where
night’s black shadows, ghostly flitting,
mark their features with despair.
Here they swoon in rooms of fire
raging for red moons that bring
satisfaction of desire
such as make their demons sing.
Pale and trembling, sick with anguish,
lashed on by their old compulsions,
see them in long shadows languish
for their dead loves in convulsions.
Crazed with lust, they waste their treasures,
lost and doomed to their devices:
secret sins and sickly pleasures
and sad, solitary vices.