Now your words lost their power to hurt,
In all attempts that your draggers aim,
Do they rarely pierce my heart chambers.

But what wounds will they cause,
To what has ceased to be since?
For what you flog is an unobsessed past,
A nondescript memorial of once we were.
You can’t kill that corpse again,
But you could allow it a tombstone,

Where one of those some abandoned nights,
Our witness, the silent moonlight peeps,
And searches in vain for our promises lost.

~S~

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