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afterimage of severance

18 March 2021


my tormentor and my muse

how far does our contentment lie

a warm autumn's breath

or a crocus in the tundra

be still my heart

for love's final hour now

proves to be the dearest

how tender the sap

of irony's forked tongue

push wire cutters to the gate of Eden

to dine with Eve by moonlight

bitter memories avert your doleful gaze

this present does not the future hold

contrite in their longing do the

frostbitten grasses - in search of springtime -

usher forth the ides of march



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