Oh so many blossoms between my fingers,
so many petals falling to the ground.
So many voices soaked into the perianth,
such heartache and such wonder.
Streets I have seen crumble under a harsh moon-lit night.
Never had I witnessed my own skin
focus on the bleeding of the world.
Low....
Low beheld the sight of seven docks.
The fancy triage, the plaintiff and victim.
Subpoenaed in the face and in the ways of the face of failed flays, flailing and sailing and mailing their souls to poles in dole of three thousand moles.
Another storm is here.
It rolls along the roof and into my mind never again to disappear.
Umbilical eyes capturing a struck star by a press of gravity clear.
How dream do we when we nurture the fee of a thousand years too late reflecting one hundred too early?
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