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He was born on Bastille day.
Very fitting, really.
The rag tag rebel with a thousand causes
worn down by hard life,
filled with an eternal fount of passion
that somehow renewed itself
after every failure and defeat
(and they were many).
Courageous heart, leathered and layered by scar tissue.
You'd storm every Bastille within your reach
If you thought there was even a sliver of injustice in it,
you'd even invent your own cause,
charge the windmills with a rusted sword,
screaming battle cries you once screamed over true battlefields.
I'm pretty sure you're going to say " no"
but I thought I would ask just so I know
so that thing coming up in March
whats it called again?
Oh that's right the semi-formal.
So you see all of my best friends are either
iar or too cool for dances.
and you well you're pretty cute
and super sweet I know this is a stupid question
and I'm going to get a "no"
but I feel as though I should ask this just to be positive...
will you go with me?
or at least save me one dance?
If you fall in love with this poet, (and she with you),
Remember, she will not tell you of the words she ascribed to your name
unless you ask to hear them.
(She likes her thoughts kept secret)

If you fall in love with this poet (and she with you)
Remember, she is not as solitary as she looks
and she will let you hold her till your arms ache.
(She’ll do the same with you)

If you fall in love with this poet (and she with you)
Remember her heart is paper, and on it she inscribes in blood
the words her soul could no longer hold.
(Your name will always be written there)

If you fall in love with this poet (and she with you)
Remember the things that made her smile,
she’s serious, but needs a break from
the things that go on behind her eyes, within her soul.
(They’re darker than you think)

Most importantly,
If you fall in love with this poet (and she with you)
Remember, you will never die.
Her words will last longer than she does.
(and as long as her heart beats, you are in it.)
She dreamed of pomegranates among lilies,
red orbs glowing among the white,
water beneath, black as soot and death,
while life drifted just above the surface.

She thought of Catherine of Aragon,
forlorn loves, starved dreams,
desolate, but beautiful, on the surface of death.
The most lovely thing about life,
is that it ends.
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