to mind my thoughts of you.
My heart,
it has no strength
but that which ought reprove
a fool like me,
for wanting aught be true.
My hands,
they have no grip
to your own ever grasp,
my feet a cadence not
to e'er tread forth
or your steps take to task,
nor my eyes light
enough to look upon
unknown directions past.
Yet i clung still
to that last string
of hope a fool might have
until to-day,
until this night,
when all these gave their last.
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