By your red.
By your bulk,
Of feline scents.
Your desires taste,
The wet wind.

You crawl upward,
To heaven,
Once laying beneath,
A crippled church.

No longer tired,
This airy frailty.
Your feet of white,
Land upon,
The mire below.

Cassandra, with eyes,
Somber eyes,
Of emerald green.

The grass seemed playful.
To gift those hues.

You cannot beg,
As the canine would.
So, you’ll come,
With red fur,
To my hands.

Death did not,
Grant freedom,
From my wants.

My hand,
Will never,
Grant another.

You were reborn,
For the moment,
Just one moment,
You, my Cassandra.

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