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The Mediocrities of Perfection

By
On the threshold of earth a


felt inhale
deeply satisfies a grieving chest the essence of its frigid perfume heaves in imps in jostling breaths a hasty ineffectual moment in that consumption a moist droplet drained a dry cold tingle sending weightless beads undulating on the small of my back a fruitless quest of frozen pixies the quickened crawling pace rests at the nape of my neck an infant wind whispers as shoulders shake and chisel into space a shiver lingers there





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