Your poems are singing to me promises of baneful love,
Your breath through each word revives each rhythm,
The verses in me, long evanesced,
you found them and killed each one.
And so with death comes a gap,
an applauding disparity,
one that is infinite
between your soul and my feeble ghost
Your poems are singing to me youthful chances,
Your voice floats above a great resonance of loathing,
and I cannot make my verses harmonize alongside yours.
And so two can’t be poets of the same poem,
What’s mine can be yours but yours alone,
What’s ours is still lost in the void called illusion.
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