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Dead Pompeii
She spins her threadbare wool while on her porch
 Her eyes are swelled and closed, the trait of sages
 The charcoal grays between the black look scorched 
 Her pepper hair is thin from fires or ages
 A mystic cradled in an ancient place
 Of dead Pompeii, a part of peeling lore
 Like weathered paint that’s left the wood’s embrace 
 But stays a part of what it was before
 Whose eyes give answer to a long sought plot
 A flick of trickling green, a thread of gold
 A tale of wealth, archaic surfeit lost 
 Remote and ashy, times that have grown cold
 But she in all her primal ways have learned
 That breaths forgotten speak through cities burned

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