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  • Andrey Psyche

Shakespeare it off



For let thy marvel at thy poison

Ingest it quick to slow thy breath

To let thy sorrow but disrobe you

And hence bring nearer to thy death

For why art thou disguised in pity

For when thy spirit starves to soar

For why art not deliver passion

To doorsteps nearer than your own

Thy knoeth that art but a victim

A peasant of thy kingdoms rule

Yet, all thy numb is but thy tendrils

A fool but feeding tumors lips

See not that all hast been forgiven

And all thy nurture is thy lack

To err is folly in persistence

In dirt and graves of restless truth

Thy seeth wounds yet let them fester

Still tremble in the shadow's gaze

Thy friend is death itself yet thy surrender

To inklings on a humans breath

To what disdains would thy replenish

Thy drained and withered, sickly soul

Lay down thy poison, disarm thy weapons

Call forth the sun from whence it came

For there are gods in thy intestines

For why thoust think thyne eye bleeds gold



Poetry by Psyche

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© 2018 Andrey Psyche

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