I fall before your beauty
and the crisis
of your absence
I quail at my turbid
little mudhole
pool of nonsense
do I deserve
to catch a break
Such a half-tryer
such a fake
and now the memories
of the memories
are old
whatever once was
lukewarm
is surely now
crypt cold
and will never
flower again
So I must find a new plot
that by god I
better tend
it may well be
the last I've got
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