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Worry-strips on eyelashes,
worry-strips on eyelashes.
Crisscrossing fir roots
over a cascade of light,
clover’s crosses
over a work still to write.
Frost molds discs
in moments’ mute fall –
it is not that, before which
sinks nightly a fiery ball.
The path twisted and turned,
rays scattered about,
the aroma of decaying leaves.
Time walks swiftly, spurred,
holding our debt in its hands.
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Clouds remain, paths remain, you are gone.
Left is the ground, left are the flowers, but you are not.
Wind carries the dandelion tufts from blossomed yearnings.
I read it all in faces gazed upon – I reckon this must be freedom.
And from a simple person I turn into a detailed construction,
from maybe a single opportunity I sing with the wind in unison,
sinking as metal into concrete.
Brittle teeth crumble from the mouth of time.
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