I start from you
from the morning of the last
until the dusk of the first.
From the haze of the barren clouds
that sift over salty shores.
To move over the wet rocks,
upon a light house,
with a broken beacon,
a limp falcon
flying above a prey,
clawing with
ineffective snatches, the time
that went by, when
the weather was good.
and things then stood
and she stood by
till a point in magenta
by a dusty sink
disappeared into the
democracies of jobs,
sobs, subjects, choices.
And stood there by
a mahogany table,
half cracked open, by its owner
while she walked
with sores on her feet,
her blood's fate sealed at a number
and the shadows watched
as the times happily
disappeared by.
'Happy Birthday' spoken
into the phone awaiting a response
from behind a wooden door
long since shut.
twenty and eight
Stay happy and tight.
with choices that were never difficult
to make
over causes that one
could not take.
And questions that were
best left unanswered.
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