My Love, My Love
This life I call my own is not,
but a glamor of death and rot.
You think me kind just and fair,
the truth is I don't even care.
When I am gone and in my grave,
don't mourn for me i couldn't be saved.
such beauty in a tiny face,
should be fringed with gold and feather lace.
within it a smile to melt stone hearts to water,
and eyes that turn men to nothing more than cannon fauder.
with lips that make this seem surreal,
they make it hard not to want there satin feel.
a vision of beauty sitting there,
and i the pray caught in this beautys snare.
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