To know just

To know just how to love
and shudder down in pain
Would be like a monochromous death

To know just how to suffer
Would be complimentary, closer than this
Ambiguous bitter mornings.

The belief that transformation is a form of mistrust
Confidence is not intelligible here
Not even Spring can bring me now

The husk of flame,
the glory of transformation
For I have suffered separation
Of my most familiar misery

As if it was a pendulous pain
set between separation and abandonment
That it became my stamp to the world
False in the callow thirsty voice
That hurls itself against the crystal cloak

Of age, that refuses to learn
Of love, that refuses to heal
Of friendship, that doesn’t hold a value

To know how to deteriorate
Would be intimate,
because to refuse the adaptation
is not an subtle art,
it’s a perpetual suicide 



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