It’s difficult, to say the least,
that with dying embers follows,
a shift to a sobering cease,
leaving thy blushing touches hollowed.

A string of simple words,
fails to compel,
a bloom of infatuation.
And met with a dry reply,
of long gone attraction.

It's hard to parrot these feelings,
when it's hard to repeat words,
which ring statically in knelling,
and glances prolonged, disturb.

Shrouded in a veil of myths,
spun from those arachnids,
that twitch in a inky abyss,
of this heavy heart.

Scents of nostalgia
brought me illness.
The hope of forgetting,
was to commit a sin.

Perceiving us as
a steady tragedy,
was the only route,
in which one could cope.
But rapid ends came,
from your hurried plucking,
of a vernal rose.

This poem is about: 
Our world


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