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May 8, 2010
The years are cinched tight with many strings,
Who gave me the silken, spinning threads?
But touch and utterly retain,
The intricate patterns tangles weave (said
I, “O, pity. There’s a dreadful knot, which strikes as bitterly profane.”)
Is all that I am left to do for,
Regret is like a vile mushroom: it thrives in private, musty corners—
Dark and secret, roots under-bound.
It’s not as if I can just let go
And watch my twisted web flutter to the ground.

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