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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