Under The Sycamore


Soon my love we will lay together under the sycamore
our ashes mingle making a beautiful mush.

Dirt covers our bodies
our bones become one,
like birds set free,
We will be black feathers and free.

Black lore, a beautiful death,
a beautiful beautiful love,
hearts become flea’s
sucking the blood of lover’s passed.

We become black
blacker still
and folklore speaks of us
as pages in a book.

A quill tattered
paper yellowed.

Time ticked
until our last hour.

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