May the hope fade for the good to come,
Altruistic for mine, Maybe for thee wholesome.
Discarding weary habits of mine,
Loathe, Awaiting thy greetings, A sense of pine.
Latched onto a crafting thought to bestow,
A gift. An anchor, Grasping onto mine epilogue, I trow.
Swash away thy portrait of dreams, Bear harsh instant.
Detach affinity, Recede from illusion of paracosm, Brace distant.
Lost in count of trampled fondness. Sore, yet I stood persistent.
A Fault of mine, The hurt I dine, Compel it non-existent.
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