Offended by a Book of the Writer's
NOW that my page upcloses, doomed, maybe,
Never to press thy cosy cushions more,
...
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The writer has accepted his fate: this lady has lost her faith in him, but he reckons he has writen the truth, and is prepared to pay the price ah sadness is apon him but he soldiers on.
But was it worth at all? To live and feel, and enjoy each moment of Life or to suffer... This life, yet was it still a life or a living death, or perhaps, a perishing life?