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By
addressed an invocation to my muse:
you scorn my vessels full of worldly speech
to string them on a line where they diffuse
left me with bursting fruit too high to reach

commenced my paltry tome in media res:
you filter algae blooming in the seas
then churn the broken valleys on display
but my lamps can't illuminate your feats

reversed my sails and raced the sunlight home:
in absence mildew festered on the cline
and lichen blossomed in your heart to roam
they seized the throne I knew was never mine

your splendor and the metric marks thereof:
a measure by which I can almost love





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