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longing

of places I’ve known
no other the same
so still is the calm
of my night
held without fame
at the end of my reason
dancing white prisms
of myrtle and blue

reflection
to light
by subtle intent –
vines weaving fate out of rhyme
gentle reminders of
something unsaid
blossom to shadows
again

patterns
repeated
except for the one
threads pulled apart
by the strain
words reconstruct
the vows of my heart –
yet lend not to verses
the voice
of my soul

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