The Dove
that died.
When
heaps of dust,
Led
me through in lust,
There
were the words I wrote,
The
words I could never emote.
The
arm that held me tight,
That
once showed me some light.
You
don’t love me now,
Wasn’t
it then all about love?
Me
you were into,
Fear
I’d undo.
For
that the curtains covered,
The
beating fist into pieces hovered.
* * *
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