The Triangle.

Never love a sun, I had scantily re-read,

Never once thinking, what beguiles us about the dead?

Is that we think they wander doubtlessly pleading for revival,

Or could it be they wait for us, for their parted ones arrival.

Never lead a cloud, I heard breezes rise,

Never once thinking, of those dilated eyes that rolled away,

Is that we think they will wake and that this mere tragedy is only a play.

The shore dies in our desolation, and adventure and waves stop breathing,

And misty faith disappears whilst stormy hearts endure the residue.

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