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And in your sight, all else becomes but sin;
A washing of the mind to wax your image in
A mind, a mind, a hole but known to see
All else becomes but darkness, blighted, the
Worst is yet as come they may, find me, here,
A drawing of the blood in cheek as through fear,
But hold not your wand, your lock, your complexity,
Before your ire; I know nothing less than words to me;
Feeling, the regret, a hold they have upon the skin,
A shake of life, from hair of neck by sores to cl’n.
How low the deep-sought soul, waxing your grace
To be as cook, so bold to know nothing, less your taste.
And, yet, I do not wish you these words as they are,
As they be but mirrors let bubble to, as in wave from far.

Wind speaks,
more to it than that

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musings & scribbles