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Published on: 30 Dec 2009 by nelson
Death is in the flower's heart – don't
Ever cry for life of any petal; and so is
Death in purple ink of weary pens: the
Written yearnings on her scented paper;
Death is laughing in her cry: the
Beating heart disclosing from a sleeve.
Death ignores the plight of any purity – He
Doesn't care or seem to be aware
Of what her dewy eye desires, for
Death beckoned: 'Embrace the jar! '
And yes, she did – for Death of course.
No other man would open up her hand
And bid her with a kiss, so
Death became her bliss.