Hush your words, lest you lead me astray,

The dictionary repeats over me,

As we do write the same words on our way,

To complete what others will never see.


A symphony of corresponding notes,

A familiar tune of the wedded,

Expressing ivory keys on which he dotes,

And of music which she promptly bedded.


And petals fall from the rose in tandem,

The same scents of loss and of the dying,

Doubting, but knowing, all this is random,

A fate from which we are thusly shying,


In the end a poem that for us mars,

Our individual integrity,

Two buds asleep in the dirty vase,

Just existing, only aesthetically.


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