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Such thoughts of pain,
In time ... shall wain.
The fruits of labours, never lost.

However, deep, dark and down she hides,
Consumed in pity, a faerie cries,
Alas ... but naught for us.

This game of love, the promise of pleasure,
The pleasure of gain,
All too soon ... the sorrow, the shame.

When left with nothing, clutching self doubt,
The emptiest nothing is to live without.