Aria Of Was
fiery palms
clasp through long goodbyes,
failures to exit which cling
with the audacity of a tomb.
i will not kiss again,
no chisel can extend the was of my lips.
no pyramid of joys to reclimb.
sometimes my face, even so,
chances to reform on a sweep of wind.
like the passion of rain,
which strums ocean’s blue breadth,
gone-in drops of phrase,
so i played the fields of love,
heaving for a while.
but it was a music of solos.
and the ocean, in the end, stands alone.
hearts in gone storms
cannot cure what caskets store
in their cold breasts.
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8/2/24 .eds... epitaph
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