My friends are getting old,

they no longer wish to dance with me,

my toes are getting cold,

I’m on a pyre in the sea,

I cannot feel my lips,

and wish that she was lying next to me,

she launched a thousand ships,

coasting through my destiny,

and on the beach they mourn,

within their eyes I see the self-same blue,

upon the waves I’m borne,

glinting sparkles gilded true,

in this life divided,

by my irksome, foolish indignation,

someday reunited,

hands will clasp in ovation.


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