Our touch is death.
Even such pure things
as the hopeful blossoms of love,
shrivel beneath our fingers.
If only we knew the art of necromancy,
So we could bring it back.
But would it be the same?
Would we be the same?
Our touch is death.
Even such pure things
as the hopeful blossoms of love,
shrivel beneath our fingers.
If only we knew the art of necromancy,
So we could bring it back.
But would it be the same?
Would we be the same?
Very thought provoking.
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Glad to hear it. I love to make people think with my poems. 🙂
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