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closertome

how much have I
this world to cleave –
a passing glance
or verse
some wayward call
I’m coming home
a place
I’m known
for leaving

a silver sky
of fated blush –
and thorns
I’ve learned to love
pages writ
and I for one
returned

finding now
the same as then –
a forest blooming rare
– a way
where only I
the story knows

shall make again
a sense in all
with reasons why I go –
lights where
some are burning

to fill the path
below

. . .