Who are we, but ourselves.
What are we, but each other.

Perhaps it was always meant to end this way

The daughter of love brazenly
declared her affections.
I fell hard in the whirlwind, and
in the aftermath of the wake, I cried.

The femme of fashion beckoned
with curved lip, drugged me
blissfully numb. I went to her
cremation, where I lied.

The lady of bark passed me by.
I followed her to the grave,
and there I died.

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