She is crumbling in my arms
the smeared mascara that runs in my veins
once vibrant, her hair is brittle
as she falls into me
there is an infinite place in her head
a place where she cowers in shame
where she is free of all blame
where it's perfect for death to play
her eyes have lost its faith
the truth her eyes have betrayed
the life of the living damned
she is forced to portray
as young as she has been
she has always been old
all the beauty in the world
she had tried to mould
gone are the ways she can be forgiven
gone are the days in which death is forgotten
gone are all the Mays' in which we anticipate June
gone, says He, the one with providence
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