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Cobblestones in Dresden

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Fall like bolded ink
words worn, blackened
by heels scuffed in long strides, stumbles--
the hollowness of
a city of ashen arms--
resting in ears dulled and
lifted in light
from where they have always been.

The stones are still sharp enough
when they fall that palms will split,
crowns will roll and spill into
the ragged veins of the earth, where the branches
of our chests will litter like
autumn descended, un-golden,
in the rubble reborn,
unbreakable.



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