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Rated: E · Poetry · Other · #595363
I suppose this could be considered a sort of love poem, after a fashion.
For one beloved only
have I abased myself with abandon,
supplicant before distant majesty.

My adoration returns with dispassion,
as would my loathing,
as do the sun's rays;
swift fire burned in ice.

I dream I drown,
arms tightly clasped
around my own stone image.
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