There's water and blood
soaring up my sky in drops
and dews with a negative
velocity gradient and a
positive downfall at a pitch
greater than my paramour's
parameters for a fake love.
Resoundingly it vibrates,
his thoughts, about the mean
position of all our souvenirs.
On being insisted by the cupid
of other dimension, I fell for
the roses he grew here out of
his own flesh. They smelt like
the arrival of spring and it kissed,
along with the death of all burnt
certainties, 'cause love was ditched
by the cupid of my dimension.
There's Oodles of tales across
space- time each space walking
in suits of love, for it's a scarcer
resource. Of all the time we'd
had and all the space we'd had
love is a lost theory and hate,
sister to some died constant
lugging its generation's prestige.
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