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Morbid

He was the hemlock to my lips,
Clung on him, was I, like he was the sail to my sunken ship

Still like the air that prevails in spring,
And harsh like the one that winters bring,
He was the bittersweet joy budding within.

Who knew beneath the veneers of his smile he hid,
Conspiracies of a destruction, so morbid?

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