She Is A Moon That Shines Too Bright When October Lingers In Springs To Be Forgotten

 

Rose in rows un-masking,
the fragrance of the lucid-dream
chamomile infested—
coffins made of willow trees

persuaded disenchantment
on rivers of stagnation
claustrophobic, polished eyes
broken in-cant-a-tion.

Progress fueled by empathy,
or—tanks of nicotine.
What does it mean
to climb with ropes of stone?

Find me love, or find me strength
For it is waving, and not drowning.

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