So Dear

Here, the hands work to find a field so dear
words feel resigned to failure, absurd
in their attempt to render it, consigned to sin

filled existence. Unwind your clock, still
your reasoned mind. Divine then our stored
memories, seasoned and blind. With ease
you’ll well that kind of fuel.

—-

(a triquahilo)

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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