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UnevenEdge

Once I was asked to write a love poem for anime club.


Bouvre

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And I just found the result of that request lurking in my poetry folder:

 

 

Rose season is meaningless. A bouquet

is grown in winter as it is in spring,

its petals a deep flamenco that sways

the heart like a cheap puppet on string.

And Valentine, near the end of his time

in jail, wrote a letter to the jailer's daughter

whom by his miracle was no longer blind,

his execution the last gift he could offer.

Sometimes love is tasteless to the tongue,

a fruit eaten first as a plain hard seed.

Some suspect the leaves of its blossom

will poison the person it once helped to feed.

Despite love's triumph of both time and age,

Boku no Pico is shit and fills me with rage.

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