Every morn I wake

The sky a pale slate

To paint my desire,

A great funeral pyre

On which I do pour

My emotions galore

Enticing your rise,

“Up, up my great prize!”

Placing you center

Of this grand venture

Look high up above,

The stars like a glove

Caress our sweet earth

Soon filled with less mirth

As you stare at the sky

My tinder I ply

Flames start to rise

Fear, chagrin, surprise

Luminate your face

My heart starts it race

To burst from my chest

Cardiac arrest.

As ashes rain down,

You fall to the ground

A cry flees your lips

“How did i deserve this?”

It always ends this way

Pain, bitter-sweet cliche.


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