Jerome by Anastasia Forfotă - HTML preview
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Haven't you conceived for a trice that
I am not beguiling?
That I desire you well and love and marbles?
You see colours of purple stained on
my hands, my semblance,
you hear them in
my voice and
read them in
my words.
You deluded them and now
put the blame on me.
We collided, yet
you assume I'm someone else.
How dare you name me rascal?
I have my limits.
It seems you don't.