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 Grandeur Of Melancholy

As A Broken Whole


For my love was never as fake.
True love, to taste.

Sorrow so...if ever so.
The moon the female.

Slowly could I define-
hidden rooms of my sacred
sanctify unholy baptism.

My haven bask-
crushed by rooms,
wombs of shapes
of fleshy forms.

Crushing my dreams.
Elapsing my sweet.

For what could be, so tenderly...
so swiftly sweep, won't ever be
nor star dying fall save.

For my true love, was never as fake...
numbed me whole.

For what I felt, what I felt
was it false? That I should never....
fret my beating heart with thoughts
that only disengage...but sweet and delirious
sexual pleasures. The mind so show.
The flesh that is living woe.

My eternity bask- is not nearly
as it seems- the gallery of my dreams.
Is not what it seams.

As love, as it is choose as letting
go or staying. Has no root in the failing.

For what a falling star that dies cannot
grant wishes nor the ones still- the planet, sun nor moon.
For what the lunar can attest. The Sun can let to cinder
and trend. Planets that drift- as a council of wordless
deep. Cannot fathom my love so deep, not bound by numbers
shapes and colors but defined by each other.







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