I Have Forged Your Image

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I am a widow of your eyes,
because no longer 
will they look upon me
in affection.
Yet still I stand with your phantom, 
your omnipresent phantom, 
which possess not your true eyes, 
but something I have forged, 
pieced together with what you 
have left behind in your footsteps.
It is a desecration, 
an abomination to
your venerated image, 
but it is all I have left of you.
It speaks not with your words
but of something you might say
in a fury, and still, 
I have named it divine providence. 
We are united, 
your phantom and I, 
and we are careful not to tred
on hallowed ground; 
ground in which one day, 
one lucky day, 
you had stepped.

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