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Faith Cheltenham

My dead relationship came back to life last night
For the third or so time.
It clawed through dirt, hoisted itself out, looked about and asked for
directions to the nearest reservoir. My dead relationship was thirsty

Limbs rotted, pale and dusky hued
Lofty light of all I Ever Wanted sheered bright thru
Unearthing doubts and dripping clods of fearful clout
My dead relationship rose from the grave ready and able
It tried to approach about the nearest train timetable
It had me to see, discourse to commence
Intercourse to submit to, even though this time it "really really wanted to"
We fell to our knees last night, begged to please and hoped to love me.
And as I paused to admire the cold and beautifully bony fašade
I reconsidered death, indeed the last, Last breath.

It asks in the name of all it was:
and come to bed, and come to bed.

And I think of cold and future nights out at sea
This poor dead body and me.

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