My urn is oozing with rotten petals. 

They are stolid, 

slouching towards the unplayable organ. 

Smoke from my ciggerate getting mystic around their brown veins. 

It wants to paint on them, 

it wants them to have sex again and ripple through all the fantasies. 

No, wait! I want them like before. 

Gone, with all the memories and blooming lights. 

Perhaps they were sublime because they were dead. 

No pseudo eternity, no restraining compassion, no timid kisses.

What a terrible life it must be, where you have to measure sensuality 

without the touch of madness. 

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