Thou
doth confess
one’s lips
crack:
tis
heat
this
winter
whose need doth dictate the compass towards
said
palms
that beat
dried nordic read -s-
oceans seeking liberty
upon
eyesight
falling
on a
crackled old map
where
old Milky Way bears
obsidian
in
a heartbeat.
I
See
keth
quench
know
not
what.
tis this state I now best.
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