Just last night I shook her treasonous hand.
Next time she will be more afraid to steal:
She will be silent or I will shred her
Into ribbons fit for the hair of queens.
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Hollow bones and brutal pride are coupled
With decay (relentless, always the price).
The privilege of the skies is a swift end.
Some lovers are too much for their feathers.
__________________________________
Sirens at stoplights,
our mortality.
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(Sitting in a chair with eyes like venom,
How lovely, the vibrant hues of poison!)
Our temporary problems are resolved
In simulacra of aged French novels
That were written by two men, yet by none.
There is a beauty in futility
That remains unmatched through the rifts of time.
In heavy summer days it sleeps, famished.
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