Well now she’s gone
perhaps to die
The bastard Me never paused to ask why
I walked away with all the rest
imagining my hidden best.
But fuck the writer and fuck the words
a flimsy shield
of flimsy verse
Because when I write I make myself
a better man or someone else.
But she can’t rhyme her life away
can’t write herself a better way
And all our eyes should be on her,
not we cowards who darkness defer.
Because she will live or she will die
and the bastard Me still didn’t ask why
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