staring back through shiny leaks,
where bleak, inked lines reflect my outward stature's deep
nature of my inner eyes,
the lowest lows, the highest highs,
the kites we flew, were in disguise,
and patterned from our hearts demise,
what i could say i cannot make,
because you've taken what's at stake,
but what it is, i can not show,
i did not set it out to blow
away, like trash, upon the ground,
a picture-pocket, which no one found...
"then what's the point?" i ask myself-
if you were here, upon my shelf,
to give me words which held, and felt,
my meanings to which i've sought help,
then maybe this would turn around,
this lonely crowd, and smiling frown,
but my intentions, muddied brown,
somehow brought my hopes to ground;
you cut the ropes, they sunk like ships,
lost, hanging from the gypsies' hips...
shaken through, from head to toe,
i turn to you, my perfect foe,
and ask you, do you feel the same?
or do you, too, play life's last stroke, those lover games?
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