tragic prodigy
You have the Florentine beauty of the soul,
with pale fingers as if made of snow,
you play nocturne farewell melody
on my ribs as if they were a harp.
and your renaissance soul
will conquer this simple one of mine,
and it will not remain of me
nothing but an outline in your past
that will complete your Shakespearean tragedy.
A picturesque depiction
of self-destruction,
after capitulating to beauty.
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