The moon’s deathly grip
challenges the hue,
its dew embellishes languor,
the heart, a labyrinthine lilt.

Yet I, ineffable, incipient at my
longing to live, live not long.

You and I are a moiety,
like picnics and ants;
one never truly lives
without the other.

As you or I.

The sky is redolent,
a sempiternal tunnel that all but
twists and winds,
the wind, a susurrus melody,
yet, too, shall be eternal.

As you and I.

But as death grasps and pulls
into itself the spirits source,
it, too, shall live forever,
its body woebegone beneath the dirt.

As you and I.

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