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closerus

bowed against
a vow unspoken
hands are holding
(now I know)
where the path
was meant
to wander
sweet and golden
sure to home

somewhere
yet
they seek
permission –
tho granted
not for one (as I)
lives are weaved
of blissful
sorrow
borrowed
threads –
each sweet goodbye

who shall
want
for this reflection
breath to wait
the fading light
souls we saved
ten thousand (mattered)
are rushed
by faith
into the night

. . .