too late to do anything but pine
mine heart is still
open
to the bid me to live and I will live
this heart that poets claim
as soft and sound
the only gift worthy
of the heart that
weeps
when you weep even
if your eyes can not perceive
and so I stand at
your command
to languish if that
is your desire
to despair if that is what the wants of me
to die inside if that
is thee request
I am a puppet with no
one
to pull the strings
too late to cover these thoughts
tender mercies
these desires to have you
have me to what even
thee wishes of me
even the last to remain unrequited
a silent partner exiled
as Socrates might have been
had he felt as I do
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