I'd pick a dying bud from thee,
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and find it,dying, unworthy of me;
it's beauty, though withered,
is much a snake a-slithered,
before his fangs find prey,
before his eyes glance day;
the glow of his liquid skin,
isn't there beauty therein?
The dead have their worth in this
realm, where beauty can be hubris
and denizens of hell have more worth,
than this man who'd love you to a fourth.
Art is addicting, an addict am I,
truth is I, the truth am I, the truth a lie!