Poem. ,

a definitive accusations wherein lies a heart dismantled.

a defining minutes of every second of centuries of emotional languishing upon a heart. . .

. . of one’s own amusement;

. . of one’s own lamentations;

but only one true construct

and of condition to train,

One heart remains beating to the rhythm.

would that be,

yours, mine

or someone

who still loves us,

Who can . . 

💥🎭🆕🆙🆒📴🎭💥

©oam®artsydhude 97-18

™XENOphagz

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