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as long as I
this fate shall keep
beholding tears of treason
folded close an ancient
opal cross
burns me still
when gathered near –
with memory of another
a time when as a child
I saw it there
dirty golden chain
never knew
for whom it mattered
or what of crops were sold
to make it right
would beauty give of passion
one season to suspend
all was come
where only truth remains
so lovely in the evening light
near enough to heaven
he’d pull her in
she’d take him home again
one more grace
for letting go –
one more lace undone
sentimental white
in trade for
opal rose

. . .