Look at how these ducts dry with no tears to moisten them
All things have come to a deathly halt
These lips crack and my breath shallows
Yet tangibly nothing has changed

My body, held together by vines, sewn with mildew, so superficially and fragile
The whole arrangement threatens to break,
If only I draw in the slightest bit of air
Yet it holds ups, this suffocating flesh prison of my decay

The vines have dug deep where my lungs used to be
A solitary blossom in between my shrunken lips
Sits there with terrible shame
Nightshade, the centerpiece of this grotesque tapestry of pain

Through river Lethe does it moistens and forgets,
Everything, the feel of your skin, the countenance you bore
Nor does it remember your voice, or the weight of your words
Its forgetfulness be cursed, it has forgotten each thing it once loved

The one thing it remembers: this feeling of dread
Knows that something is amiss
For it may not remember your voice
Yet how can it forget the way it made it feel

And forgotten perhaps is your touch
But the longing that has settled in its absence
Remains as ripe as nightshade blooming
Between the shruken lips and the crackling lungs


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