Her back.
And the thousand
Poems you didn't write,
Find all possibilities
To happily rot.
But life goes on
You know.
The many sunsets,
And winters.
The yellow stripped
Off the flowers,
And the fragrance.
You try to clutch
Your chances.
But you find no anchor
Whatsoever.
And the pyres in
Your chest,
Many funerals in
Your head and
A fancy for looking
At the ships that
Capsize, growing
Into a happy fetish-
You thought you'd
Find peace when
The last known place
Of nostalgia would be
Razed to dust.
But an apocalypse
Has always been
The start of a new
Religion and you're
Condemned to a
Bigot of love again.
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