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Picture Credits:
No fantasy
shooting stars,
conjured up by illusions
of your incredible love for me,
illuminate my night.
No “Love Boat” pyrotechnics displays
blind my eyes -
nor do timpani
rumble in my heart
(crescendo to some insipid love song
played by ten thousand strings
in an orchestra extraordinaire),
as in days lost.
Au contraire, mon petite.
I have become an exile
to ennui,
to sorrow,
and to nights blacker
than black.
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