The colors on my canvas have run dry;
All that remains is grey solitude.
Her face lingers amongst the shadows.
Those blurry strokes are not mere memories any longer;
They’re but the mist that clouds my sorrows.
A faint line that stretches across her visage could yet be a smile.
Her, I yearn for; didn’t empires perish for such love?
Tears that crowd the eyes bleed the heart dry.
Frowns crease her beauty; another shameful death comes as I cry.
As the fires singe my love, I burn in sympathy.
Nothing but this loneliness remains.
Amongst the charcoal ashes in which as embers, I simmer.
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