Though I can sense it's awful fingers touch;
Not cruel, not evil, not unkind as such,
But creeping in to dye my thoughts unset.
Cascading light illuminates your face,
My memories warm, though you are cold to touch;
Not distant, callous, not selfish as such,
You've left me still, though, lonely in this place.
Sleeping, pallid, you're covered, then you're gone,
And soon I may forget your tender touch;
Not lost, abandoned, not spiteful as such,
Just pushed aside so I might soldier on.
Oh, my lost love, my swollen eyes are sore.
Our meagre home your coffin evermore.
Now read Denial Cycle #2. Click Here.
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