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roses are sweet
though I can never tell
the point where
essence is lost
table top manners
and looking glass gold
frail as these fingers
to hold

repent me
no longer –
were nothing but skin
succumb to your waiting

mystic translation
of who I became –
bartering breath
for sorrow
fate of the faithless
to bow

long stilled
the passion
of summers made sweet –
whispers forgotten
another someday –
muttering madness
secrets to lies

will takes the hunger

. . .