Proof laid bare,
brought forward
after final friction,
showing that this union
had remained
mere fiction.
Our future
was never received
with open eyes.
We’re burned
from believing
the sun was
our warmth.
Our parched lips
asked for an avenue,
under weighted clouds.
Intrigued.
Held in reverence
of what we bereave,
as our tower
is torn up,
like a weed.
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