She Sits in Pessimism

When all that's given up is good,
compressed beneath a blackened hood,
no face to match the victim's fate,
no voice to say that it's too late,
no will to wake the sleeping love
or match the hand up to the glove,
then we are naked, neat in hate,
arranged beneath a feather's gate,
all light in firsts, our last condemned
to kill the lover and the friend.
Alone, we'll wait with all the breath
of answers lost and seek our death.

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