Fessa.
My dreams, I see, had truce with pleasing trace
With a complex clove; a trust that none must have but she.
I held my hand in treason ‘gainst my heart,
And never again shall the fact bother me.
I had threefold the malice of any other man,
And none but the innocence of a young boy at seven,
But now, I can never go to heaven.
Lord knows I can never go to heaven.
Leave me now, my malady has given in to the air,
It joins the celebration she had arranged,
It held a bouquet
By the traffic of my breathing; it seems much more bearable,
For where there is silence,
There is peace,
And there was peace after all, after we get even,
In the dire hour after eleven,
In her eyes I might be forgiven,
But Lord knows I cannot go to heaven.
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