Bartimaeus

Death to my soul that loves you so,
Each kiss is a ghost, cold as snow.
Pickled and sour is this heart of mine,
Rake up the leaves you left behind.
I was so honest, so proud and pure,
Veils of hatred will coddle no cure.
All of my hope proved not to be sound,
To only be broken, like glass on ground.
If now my heart be doomed to waste,
Only death shall bring me life I taste.
No life is worth, without love's warm touch.

The End

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