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Watching the Fire Die In that dark place where men and angels pray, I watch the flames of my contempt ...and the fire that licks the splinter ...the evil and the envy in the day wear on me; their permutations, gray to sickness and to sleep that coats the walls with dust. And I love your face, your art, which is both passionate and deep but I fail in that same way that passion plays a game with others in a pride that fails desire and the love I feel goes cold ...to wet and wearied clay. This is the subject of our longing! These sisters!, these brothers!, for whom the likes of Jesus died ...a wet world for the rust! And I feel that you could not love me, my old bones beneath the covers, in the slow rot and decay which precisely leads to Winter where loveliness is cast into the fire!
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