Insatiable  was the one,

The one who wept in self-predilection.

In itself, so unsound.

And silence those unsound and their

Ensanguined malcontent.

Falsely beautiful as the autumn, with her leaves

So dead.

So spent.

Like the longing for that one lone truth.

Which has all but came and then it went.

For upon those days, you could have had, these

Things that were once despised.

Things that are lost, all of them now gone,

Yet now, they hush the cries.

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