His veins are dim canals that twist, and turn.
A labyrinth of blood, a mirrored path,
That ushers me toward the silent burn
Of sixty candles, glowing in his hearth.
He does not see me raise my hand, nor press
My sickly fingers to the window pane.
He stands, a statue, cold to my distress
As shards of glass lodge in my eyes again.
And as I, bleeding, turn to make my way
Down iron-scented avenues of lies
I contemplate the way he'd smile, and say
that eager hearts were something to despise.
If I were wise, then blinded, I would see
like some Greek Hero, in a tragedy.















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--
[I Am Fortune's Fool.]
You're not the first to think that everything has been thought before.
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