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of aches
I’ve come to know
too well
of lazy sunday mornings
when tempeted by a dreamer
back to bed
took no regard
for lessons –
a preacher’s silent rants
of destinies approaching
flowers in my hand

was almost none
to matter
a place where I was not
a fleeting stare
of sullen disregard
for sins already offered
confession getting cold
eyes on the horizon
a place
to weight me down

where once a storm was rumored
warning me of tears
the morning pulling in
across the pines
afraid for days beyond the next
firey passion slept
warm against the longing
sunday kept

. . .