Renegade with a whispered will,
Death holds you close, you draw me closer still.
Silent pleas sink away from the violent reverie;
a touch of masochism finds us retroactively.
A pinch, a dash, a dusting of gold leaf to cover over all
the rottenness deep within, now beneath a gilded wall
of jealousies and sweetness, a silhouette of verse
comes quickly, lovely, fickle, Epicurean in it's course.
And like the fall of Troy or Rome or a dismal fantasy,
your whispers are cut short, too soon, you are taken away from me.
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