I suppose this is a pairing for this older poem. It's not really my style as it has slant rhyme and I tend to avoid any sort of rhyme, but it just seemed to work with it.
Did it not love you, when it was forgotten
weight on your bookshelf,
a cornered page of a tome?
Because that which is written is just and right
and has no will of its own.
The pages bore witness
to the muscle's lazy beating,
the rift underneath the flesh;
they stifled its breath with their parchment hands
and silenced it in death.
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