Come, ask me. Ask my heart!
What do I desire?
The stars? The moon? The fame? The name?
Come, wither with me, sting me with your wounds and leave me to bleed, to perpetually die with consent.
Come, tell me that my being lilt about you is paradoxical and shouldn’t have existed in the first place,
Tell me that all the poems were unnecessary,
remained continued to the farcicality of the world,
Completely futile in their essence,
Just some more love poems.
I wonder who are the blessed ones?
The ones who are happy, contained, sufficed.
Tell me or again, don’t.
Because again, it will be all a façade.
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