I forget the kindness of the man,
like the scar trailing down my back.
Still, I find the face I want for him,
dipped in tar, desires of black.
I conjure my inner amorist,
roused by a tender gaze.
His blood is cold and barren,
mine, his, all the same.
I recall the strangers who’ve met me,
residing in the nights undefined.
I am caught in the shadow of others,
the dark bell chime, toll a lifeline.
I mute my inner companion,
sleepy; he never came.
His flesh is cool and clammy,
mine, his, all the same.
I conjure my inner amorist,
roused by a tender gaze.
The bell toll, cold and barren,
a poor reminder of my fate.
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