Whispers


                                                                             How must I live,

Amongst fulfilment so fleeting,

Joys so pedantic,

In Rancor I am seething.


The love of lovers naught,

Tales poetic never bred,

All that blood was never beautiful,

It just stained red


Passions flow evermore freely,

For in hatred of the kin,

No reprimands from the gods,

No love, immorality or sin

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