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morning streams
reminders still
of just how close
forever willed
in sheets of cotton
patchwork vine
as crimson burned
into our time
another was
(and e’er shall be)
written to
the passing days
e’er as lips are cooled
but held as memory
(so it seems)
survivors of a promise rent
from faraway
so near the night
where once we slept
another dreams

. . .