a prance, choosing in thy stead to dance
will thy hand wither to grasp a soft touch
some love unreserved at a gentle glance
Pretentiousness storytelling a sly foe
be in doubt of her ways and where she goes
relent; she will not, smiling with her final kill
blood smeared talons rip out your heart with ill
forcibly driven inside by hurt, the dirt
unable to cleanse away thy pain
beneath a shower without gain
a place to return to again and again
Thus to end it now; a subtle memory of shame.
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