Canst thou pen ever rest? Please, leave dire glooms

To be only mine, not thy book of tragic
Plays full of sighs filling hearts of empty rooms
Where the end page recites in dark ink magic
My last night thoughts followed by unrest chaos
Of dreams. Love how far is thee; how close our minds?
Fear to think, sleep, or write; I hang on the cross
Betwixt desire and death; loneliness grinds
With no stop; minutes, hours, days, all years
And despite thou sees me still as a rose, I turned
To a brown Fall brush soaked in rainy tears
With eyes sunk in deep circle roots and nights burned
In flames; Love, let me read once more the last page
For we’ll die with rhymes of love on the same stage.

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