There's a temptation inside of your heart,

and a fragrance on the tip of your tongue
that smells rather musky; my ears do smart
as you speak in flowers already sung:
There's no mettle in your purplish petals,
though the vase that contains you is graceful
and clear, green gunk at the bottom settles
as I disappear from thoughts distasteful:
Emptiness or aggression: two routes to
nowhere, absolutely nowhere worthwhile;
so I choose the high path, and it doubts true
signs of madness and evil and the vile:
I'd call that faith, not in time or in man,
but rather in myself; I never ran.
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