Eight Line Poem

19 8 4
                                    

Oh, all the hearts you've withered away;
Eroded like a mountain of ancient decay

Your words; delicate ecstasy of a sword's point
Our hearts, rowdy and malicious, without joint

I looked at a face, entranced in loss and despair
But romance, has burdened all my care

Don't sleep, beneath the sheets of a tranquil wreath
For a heavy heart weighs down thought machines to a steep

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