Monday, June 12


Soft warm things embrace mid-air;
The charm of darkness makes it fair.
She, Anna, story told so often,
Fails to make this reader care.

New violets bloom on moonlit nights.
In radiant amethyst, delight.
He, innocent of lurid tales,
Remains in awe of what shines bright.

Disdainful of the frost are we,
Embrace the lives the rest don’t see.
A mocking grin, a veil so thin,
For in our secrets, thirst is free.

Sweet succor in misguided act.
Refulgence draws the bloated back.
Again, again, the curlew cries,
Belabors false beneath the fact.

Regret is for mistake alone,
Not we who’re built of sterner bones.
Oh Anna, dear, you placed your pen
Beyond your world, your shifting home.

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