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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Experience · #1227437
On fleeting strength, vanity, and the fall from grace.
How does a stone column
Cold and breathless in the night
Appear so strong and immovable

Break so easily when Sampson exerts
His strength was broken
The braids and locks fell to the floor
When the beautiful woman of Yorek cut them

O, let me avenge mine two eyes
Let my blindness leave
Let mine oppressors die beneath my hands
But the two will only deceive me

There's the sigh
The cry
The rub
That softly steals our grace

I heard from a little bird
A desperate eulogy
A fine, fine requiem
For the strength, the weakness, and the faithlessness

She drew a last name
While you were far away, half-asleep
It meant nothing to us

All the circumstance and aristocracy
All the smiles and mockery
All the hatred and oblivion
All the aphorisms and clichés

Left us with these small, smooth stones
To hold and to caress
To cherish, everlasting
Until death do you part
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