Hard therapy of the moonlight,

I was never yours to keep;

Sometimes the ailing lady,

Weak as water, flushes amber, 

A harvest fever. 


Cool and pensive, miles of stars burn 

In your stained glass eyes, catch in

Your lashes like fragments of

Dreams, carnivalesque, but still I 

Run through nightmares. 


Sometimes in cold rooms they harvest 

Hearts; my own is relentless as 

Nighttime, my own is a knot 

Of red-hot regret pulsing deep in 

A valley of shame. 

The End

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