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[a villanelle]

The forms of love will not suffice
The soul a scatter of dry bone
The sad fact is I killed her twice
 
The wind burns cold as polar ice
Past the worn and tumbled stone
The forms of love will not suffice
 
From death's cold hand now fall the dice
The heart's wild wager overthrown
The sad fact is I killed her twice
 
How desolate the final price
Our history all overgrown
The forms of love will not suffice
 
Our certainties, now imprecise
Our melody a grating tone
The sad fact is I killed her twice
 
The scent of flesh was sweet and spice
The sweetness caught and torn and flown
The forms of love will not suffice
The sad fact is I killed her twice.

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Framed