Engraved on a Needle.

With a capital S she sighs
And during Songs she nods, not
In boredom, (Although that is her Patron
State), but she agrees with the Scent
And the sentiment from stale shows
About leaving and grieving and
Dissatisfaction to the Gut and heart.

Oh, how she hates me under her smile
Her gorgon looks dart granite bolts
And brassy quires of pins at my uncovered head.
I know her hate is fuel, and hopes
In her full heart that I am dead.

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