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 Grandeur Of Melancholy

As A Broken Whole

For my love was never as fake.
True becomes false love, to taste, is and was.
Because maybe, our senses
are broken; made whole.

Sorrow so...if ever so.
The moon the female, male,
still love, and as a broken half
together makes a whole,
better off alone?

Slowly could I define-
hidden rooms of my sacred
room, that of planets 
that come back to life.

My haven bask-
wombs of shapes
of fleshy forms,
that could have been 
born, but is it selfish
they take on my looks,
apperance, of our brokenness.

Crushing my dreams.
Elapsing my sweet.

I wake from the tendrils 
of a cosmos so dear,
and gentle with repairing me?

So what did this?
I don't know anymore....
a gallery of screen doors
half of me; no, it was not even.

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

the Sun that shines down upon.
As being complete in incompleteness.







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