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deepundergroundpoetry.com
Mortem Amoris
In vain, I wait for wounds to heal through art,
Art's healing properties may well exist:
You stole my heart - it nestled like a lark,
In eaves where expectation nested - Twist
My mistakes? Should I twist yours too? The sight
Of putrid prick won't penetrate - it's ceased
To spend itself through sex; it can't ignite
Or rekindle our passions - faded pieces
Are forgotten with lark calls: they never dry;
Art's dedication really can't preserve
A tortured, terminated trust; I'll cry,
If sepsis won't set in soon; who'd conserve
This bitterness and festering from fights
That bring on love's demise; (while art delights).
Art's healing properties may well exist:
You stole my heart - it nestled like a lark,
In eaves where expectation nested - Twist
My mistakes? Should I twist yours too? The sight
Of putrid prick won't penetrate - it's ceased
To spend itself through sex; it can't ignite
Or rekindle our passions - faded pieces
Are forgotten with lark calls: they never dry;
Art's dedication really can't preserve
A tortured, terminated trust; I'll cry,
If sepsis won't set in soon; who'd conserve
This bitterness and festering from fights
That bring on love's demise; (while art delights).
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