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The man dabbles with his pencil In his own perpetual cognition he muses with his soul, Who whispers to his mind And exasperates that the truth be told and his confessions be made.

He turned to his side, A grief expression on his face The sun left; her face filled to the brim with frowns of worry And whispered to the moon to shimmer himself brightly in the night sky so he could write

He lined the pages with his blood For his excuse was he had no ink to write Materializing his imagination through the science of love Through his blood, he shed

Letting the page fall out of his hand He let his heart do the work As he clenched his hand Feeling the grief spill, seep, and plague

The air which be breathed And set against his eyes, softening them with their toxic touch Gently whispering them to close As he fell into a deep sleep

Waters fell from the sky Trickling on his empty page Guiding his blood through each crevice That flourished into a wondrous dark blue

And evaporated into a dark grey Filling the sky with colors, alas. His blood moved no more. and silence quaked the very earth

From which he pressed his hand And set forth his being Against the page of time And let it loose To run amuck

And hoped that it would return To conquer the world For his vengeance was pure As the night sky he had crafted

But nonetheless His heart was weak From the love that he had ripped And he could not set forth

With the willpower of a thousand dead men And in that silence Was when he let himself go To plague his own soul

With the air that was impure, And let himself collapse And rot Into a beautiful flower

That would one day be plucked And be graced with the hair Of a young maiden And he too, would be happy.