Ad Finum
On the white throat of useless passion
That scorched my soul with its burning breath
I clutched my fingers in murderous fashion
And gathered them close in a grip of death;
For why should I fan, or feed with fuel,
A love that showed me but blank despair?
So my hold was firm, and my grasp was cruel -
I meant to strangle it then and there!
I thought it was dead. But, with no warning,
It rose from its grave last night and came
And stood by my bed till the early morning.
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