There are poems of love I will now never finish

Singing nothings that are now nothingness.

You did this, you killed them, you stole out their flame

Now silence must pay back the debt of this pain.

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It hurts to know I

Wasn’t enough;

And the rivers I cried may as well

Have been blood;

For the hurting they brooked

Was as deep as a wound;

And my streams now have dried

to evaporate you.