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| It stares back at me Like a solemnly uttered Profanity of sorts. I Cannot call back the Sentiments that had moved Me to carve your name on Earthly eternity. You, trapped In the finiteness of this World. Idiotic, Literal, a darling little Hun. Art cannot dwell In the slums of your soul, For you make filth out of All that you caress. And I, my darling Hun, I Granted the undeserved, The unthinkable. In Between shivers, your Warmth feels cold. False. I am not amused. The Wood remembers, it Clearly shows. And It denies me the Favor of forgetting. |
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