She was nothing sweet
like Bergamasque
Could’ve had bits of
Mozart in her
sprinkles of Requiems
yet she didn’t do it for the dead
She did it for the ones
who couldn’t stand her essence
yet craved her
memory
A solemn treaty
of sentiment
Words that could never replace
the inferno that was held
in her veins
but was explored
in her touch
Fire and gold
was what she clutched
Tips of nocturnes
strings of cellos
flowed from her willowy fingers
and even if one tried
you could not touch her
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