O! That sweet epistle on my lambent desk
Fragrance from whose cringed parchment creates magic
Ink-lit words moor my mind that dawdles to wreck
The emotions still ensconce in heart’s attic
With trembling hands and pounding heart I open
Trickling tears regret relationships, broken
The letters inside the crest haven’t lost their sheen
They still hold the power to turn my wounds green.
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