Red fevers fizzle given hatred’s time,

But voidness fills what hatred leaves in rhyme.

There ith no bitterer a man in pain

Than when the lock of love ties itself shut

Through sudden pain surmounted not in gain.

Thou wishest for a lover who adores

Thine essence and thy soul in all its hue

Without prejudice to thy heart and core,

And yet, thou takest only misery in due.

Wouldst thou give not the world, in all its power,

To she who hath destroyed what thou hast made abut,

And eagerly await their fall beyond the Hour?

Mayth she who madst thou bleed retain her glory

So all mayth crumble down in her own story.


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