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willfulme

silhouettes pry
the secrets untold
from the heart of the storybook
teller I’m told

there are places
forgotten
sometimes it is said
when the words
are come easy
to press round my bed

and rain pours her tears
to my pillow (my soul)

who will remember
I wonder sometimes
what is lost
in the leaving –
the growing to old

as rings on the willow
a promise was made
and nursed by the darkness
returning our light
silver blue shadows
flash to and fro –
as a sign of our saving
wings touch the night

as a dream just beginning
a story so sweet
is gone with the dawning
a silent retreat

from the trust in another
was wonder to know
when leaned into love –
paper wings
letting go

. . .

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