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A Time Too Late.
I wonder,
what will become of this?
This promiscuous emotion,
this enfeebling lust,
siphoning my vitality from vein.
What will become of our lives?
The very fabrication of it all,
of all that we shared,
gained, learned, and eventually
lost at the expense of another.
You fill my heart up,
with envisions of carnal desires,
with hopes and dreams of us,
of our lives destined to be,
of how we were once happy.
But now we have withered,
wasted away into sweet oblivion.
To dwell our entire lives,
to ponder on the notion,
wondering of what we could of been.
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