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Where were you when I was dying?
Now that I am all but (merely nearly) dead
you mock me,
beg my aid
to mitigate
dark fall-out
of your fantasies.
Blind to my bleeding, caught up
in your cut-ups,
how can what I’ve left to say
reach you anyway?
Take your pleading to your
silent Lord.
Leave me to degenerate demise.
Strangers all these years
we might have met as intimates.
Today’s last wane of desire carries no regret,
no interest
for meeting
in your dream.
.
.
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