
and if I died, middle night, no moon,
how quickly then would you forget me?
I have had to kill you one thousand times,
yet I grieve as all good widows do.
would I look down from foreign clouds,
to see you with your freakshow hat,
worn askew in charming manner,
built up high to impress?
and if I died, my deceitful lover,
would the mirror tell you lies,
or placate conscience with new truths to tell?
I put your hat into a box,
simple and uncomplicated,
then buried you beside yourself,
and hoped the company would not offend.
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