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The Morgue

There was a scent of rotting flowers,
Within the lonely morgue of ours.
The sky was drifting on your shoulder…
And deeper than the eye of the beholder
The beauty of Hell in my heart
Cast on me your eyes in the dark.

We set our sails upon the glass of seas
Our newborn cries upon the breeze.
And something lingers—the sightless see
The births that should not be.

My heart in two, I saw the Ending
When we were old and grey.
Upon our lives the pall descending
On breathless hearts of clay.

And the wreathe I lay at your petals,
When the ash from the wind settles
Upon the grave within the waters—
The gods now slain upon their altars
As, cloudless and broken upon the shore
The heart of Death beats no more.

And in the flowers of your shadows
The blood of the stars ever flows.
Their flame is thine, as in my heart
Breathes silent the light of the dark.

© 2021 Marten Hoyle
MartenHoyle
Written by MartenHoyle (Marten Hoyle)
Published
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