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The Wake (a Sonnet)

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A peachy dust upon a dimpled cheek;
A waft of lilies in an airless room;
Within friends’ eyes, friends consolation seek;
The food untouched in that forbidden gloom.
She rests, oblivious to the convention;
Reclining in her dress of whitest silk;
Last night, admired without dissention;
Today, lying still amidst her mourning ilk.

As is the blush upon her pretty mug
An artist’s stroke upon a rotting lug.



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