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Work-in-Progress
Wraiths
you, the delicate moth,
enticed into flame
but doesn’t get burned
because you’re that much hotter
she, pretty as a glass cathedral,
but not like my daughter
who is beautiful like the ocean -
splendid in animation;
the mirror of a terrible and ferocious
sky
he, the brilliant and dull
blues and greys of our
suspension before the void,
that mighty stillness which
cloaks distant views
in the velvety failing of our memory
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