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What Became of Nietzsche's Mistress
By moonlight she walks
along the shore of the sea
in a gown of green velvet and lace.

With a dagger in hand
full of Aryan gleam
and tears that left scars on her face.

As a child she was raised to love beauty.
As a woman she'd come to love pain.
The cold and the wet,
perverse and upset,
and strikes to her back with a cane.

So now, like a kiss
the blade cuts her wrist,
and the stars cast a glow to her side.

The Philosopher's queen
has yet to be seen.
Her corpse swept away with the tide.

(comments welcomed)

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What Became of Nietzsche's Mistress - by UberStein - 11-20-2009, 07:07 AM

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