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Swansong Regalia

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When the dawn cries she draws her knees together,

hips brushing undressed trees and cat eye ponds.

She is the martyr, the dog-eared fold of flesh,

the flashing distress - drowning in steel puddles.

When the day begins to break, her knuckles are

the first to go, no longer able to stretch shadows

into their velvet splendor, their grass stained

faces, their indigo threads weaving nervously

into each other.

When the dusk brushes her last smile under

rugs of daffodils, the blood drains from her

face until ink seeps into the moon, into

stardust, into quietness and peace and

remnants of the cosmos.



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