Foul Play, a Florette

solitary is the bard’s life
headstrong, stubborn words causing strife
distractions cannot be obeyed
intent at odds with rhymes, I bade they emerge rife
days spent leaning over worn desk
head bowed above maddening task
proposing numerous sketches
erasing scribbling etches, devising drafts
dissatisfied, still I persist
too many more are soon dismissed
rhymes are hard to come by this day
did Shakespeare have a verse foul play, or slam his fist
was his floor strewn with shamed rejects
until such time he found respect
within just the right syllables
opting for those admissible that shone perfect

Please join us at dVerse poets where I give instruction on the Florette form.  My post will go up today at 3PM EST:

I Miss That Time

There is no one
that I miss.
No one who has
passed on or moved
through my life do
I wish would return.
No, I am at peace
with the time we
spent, however
short or long.

There is a wistful-
ness though of times
long ago of when I
was young and
content, happy and
secure with being a
new mother and
feeling a purpose
that was profound
and real.  I was
needed, and savored
each moment of
tending and caring.
There was no sacrifice
within my delight.

Love flowed freely
from me to you,
my heart open wide
to intuit your needs.
Holding you gently,
warmly to my breast,
keeping you close
and safe from harm.
Teaching and showing,
listening and giving,
rejoicing in your
perfection, fed my soul.
Looking into your eyes,
I marveled at your
preciousness and the light
that glowed around.
It was grace that brought
us together, our energies
aligned within a universal

So it’s those times that
I miss more than anything
else.  Those early days
of motherhood were
truly some of the best.

Mary at dVerse Poets invites us to reflect on what or who do we miss:

Komachi Balloons

Komachi Balloon Flowers; Bing Images Public Domain

Komachi Balloon Flowers; Bing Images Public Domain

Komachi balloon
blue umbrellas clutch secrets
hummingbird hovers

Komachi balloon
puffs of blue delight expand
pealing bells open
Blue umbrellas clutch secrets
hushed whispers quiet
autumn’s frost brings sleep
Hummingbird hovers
Komachi nectar sustains
red poppy beckons

I was inspired to try a new poetry form called Troiku that Viv had written this past week.  It was invented by Chèvrefeuille, a Dutch  haiku poet and leader of the Carpe Diem Haiku Kai group, aka Kristjaan Panneman.  I didn’t quite use the advised format but will work on that.  Here is a link to his very interesting site and where he explains his new form:

Abhra is our host today over at dVerse Poets for Open Link Night.  Link up any poem of your choosing:

‘Twas Just a Joke

We were teased for maybe two weeks.
Humidity dropped, temperatures
did too. Late nights were chilly,
early mornings too. There was
a decided dryness in the air that
is rare in these parts. Ah, at last
it’s here, I sighed and smiled, fall
has come to Florida, maybe a bit
earlier this year. What a gift, a
wondrous delight, to find that she
had tiptoed in when we really
had not expected. Oh, we felt
so blessed that summer’s heat
had been quietly dismissed and
fall had taken his place. What
had we done to receive such
grace? No matter, we simply
smiled our gratitude and
enjoyed the sweet bliss of an
early respite from a lengthy
sweltering sweat bath, aka,
summer in the Sunshine State.
Oh, but wait, ‘twas just a joke!
We were being mocked, made
fun of and taunted by a bully.
You’ve got to be kidding me!
It was not to be. It did not last.
That late evening coolness has
gone, blown back to the north.
And summer returned, not done,
bringing his best pal humidity
along with soaring temperatures
back into the high eighties.

Victoria invites us to share our weather reports with one another across the globe over at dVerse Poets:

Endless Resource

A lack can cause death,
so can too much.
It can flow in great waves
or to a trickle and such.

Its power is grand
but can clean a newborn.
It encircles our planet
dotting spans to Cape Horn.

Pooling in puddles
it’s fun to jump in
home to great whales
and others with fins.

Rejoicing when it’s plentiful,
we take it for granted.
Those going without rue the
weight they’ve been handed.

Unlike the moon
beaming same on us all,
some places it’s scarce
straining life to a pall.

Life giving fluid essential for
survival, some think it’s rife,
and will forever be abundant
for us and wildlife.

But perhaps we should muse
on whether or not this is true,
be prudent and thoughtful
before we find ourselves through.

Join us at dVerse Poets today for Meeting the Bar with Bjorn where we learn about enjambment. The pub opens at 3PM EST.

A Master’s Heartbeat

View of the Asylum and Chapel at Saint Remy

View of the Asylum and Chapel at Saint Remy

His vantage point from the small window was enough that he could see several different buildings and the expanse of the wheat fields growing beyond. But there were days when he just stared unseeing out the window too ill to really even enjoy the view.  His distinguished, yet haunted blue eyes were sunken into his thinning face.  He didn’t have much of an appetite during his stay in the asylum and most days he ate only bread and soup.

Though painting was a calming past time, there were days that he wasn’t allowed to paint because of his compulsion to drink his turpentine and paints which would then add to the complications of his epilepsy and mental state. In spite of that, he managed to produce many paintings, and some of his most famous, during his stay at Saint-Paul.

When well enough he could wander the gardens, grounds and halls of the property and often these sites would find their way into his art. A long corridor echoed his depression with its cold, vacant, gray benches and darkened shadows cast throughout.

expressionless eyes
pleading, hollow, impassive
a master’s heartbeat

I used a senryu here rather than the traditional haiku.

This is Haibun Monday #3 over at dVerse Poets and Bjorn shares a painting by van Gogh to inspire us:

Let’s Coddiwomple

I’m summoning it now.
I’ve put out the request.
I need to coddiwomple
to soothe my roving
breast. It’s been a few
years; it’s way past due.
I don’t have to roam far
a day’s drive will do.
A new slice of scenery,
a new bird or food,
anything enticing or
that catches my fancy.
I’d like a long drive
maybe along the water
where I can see the
waves, some fins,
a dolphin or manatee.
Nature is fine during
the ease of these days,
not so hot that I sweat
if I meander or hike
I’d love a companion
to join me on this outing,
bring your binoculars,
a hat, your curiosity
and joy for sharing.

Grace introduces us to our guest host, C.C. of who invites us to write on different aspects of travel, whatever moves us.  Join us a dVerse Poets:

Rumi and You

Once there came to be a cat named Rumi.
He was funny, friendly, bouncy and sleek,
with eyes of green that merged into your soul.
Sometimes he was ours, sometimes just yours.
Laid back but fierce, he could hunt with the best.
His paws no one could touch.

A thought was all it took to connect a touch
between human being and Rumi,
telepathic kitties are the best.
Black and white fur designed him sleek
and he knew intuitively that he was yours.
A spirit sage dwelt within his soul.

Soon his body became taxed but not his soul,
a vet was needed with his learned touch.
A trial was beginning that was yours,
to maintain his health and save your Rumi.
A malady did strike that took his sleek
and challenged him to remain his best.

Balance was found to restore that best,
body came into alignment with his soul;
his ruffled fur once again became sleek.
Cat was back…hadn’t lost his touch.
Our hearts were joyous for our Rumi,
a sigh of relief was mine and yours.

This cat had many more lives than you,
he kicked ass to regain his best.
No better cat for us than Rumi,
salvation was gifted through his soul.
A being of greatness, we were so touched,
he faced hurdles with strength and sleek.

Many long years he lived in sleekness
and never wavered that he was yours.
We were deeply affected by his touch,
those years with him were of the best.
He gave us his purity, his love, his soul,
this superb little being that we called Rumi.

Rumi’s life uplifted our souls and showed us our best.
His sleek countenance was because of your dedication
and your most selfless, loving touch.

I started this poem not too long after Rumi passed away but never finished just the last three lines, the envoi.  This is my tribute to a wonderful companion and my daughter who never gave up…until Rumi was ready to move on.

Tonight is Open Link Night over at dVerse and Bjorn invites us to link up any poem of our choice to share:

Dear Beverly

Decades after I last saw you,
I wrote you a letter but didn’t
know where to send it.
I wanted you to know how
much it meant to me that you
included me in your family.
We met in 7th grade, and
soon discovered that we
were born a day apart at
the same local hospital.
Our mothers were
there at the same time.
We always joked that we
were in adjoining bassinets.

As we got to know each other
better, I started spending
nights or weekends at your house.
I never invited you into my home
in all those years that we were friends.
I was embarrassed and ashamed
at my father’s alcoholism and our
less than adequate living conditions.
I didn’t even know the word for what
my father’s troubles were and I didn’t
have the words or courage to tell you
how deeply it affected me.
And you never asked me why,
perhaps both of us too shy.
But being able to spend time
with you and your family,
even joining you on
vacations, was a nice break
and gave me a sense
of normalcy.

As we got older, we went
on dates together with
guys, you mostly with
Bill, who would end up
being your husband one day
and father of your boy.
Our lives took very different
paths after high school however
and we lost touch. You went on
to become an accomplished
nurse and I went the way of
spirituality and communal life.
Some years later we
reconnected back in Orlando.
You and Bill had divorced and
you were about to marry
another. I found out that
your father had passed
away from Alzheimers
many years prior when
he was in his fifties.
It took him young.

We met one other time
when I learned your
mother had passed,
but we drifted apart
again…never really
regaining the friendship
we had forged before.
And then came the day
I sat in stunned silence
as I read your obituary.
I never found out what had
happened…how your life
had ended. I hadn’t
used the opportunity
to let you know how
much you meant to me.
But I like to think that
love doesn’t have boundaries
and you know how much I cared.
Love, Gayle

I too tweaked the prompt today but this really impacted my life and I wanted to share it. I truly believe that all my loved ones know that I love them.

Our newest team member, Kelly, asks us to write love letters to someone before it’s too late or let someone know that we care for them over at dVerse Poets:

This Pillow I Need to Punch!

This pillow I need to punch!
It’s puffed itself up in a bunch.
It’s no longer a rectangle
and I feel I could strangle
this pillow that’s gone out of shape.
A cushion that needs adhesive tape,
isn’t something your head upon can rest
with one side being far too compressed.
So I shake it and prod it, mold it and beg it,
please conform to my head and befit it!
But a lump now has appeared in the middle
and I fear I can no longer fiddle
with this pillow that’s become so un-fine,
and refuses to support my recline.
So in my angry reproach, my temper now reaches a boil,
I drop-kick it down the hall, screaming “You’re no longer my foil!”
And the cat thinking that it’s some prey,
pounces quickly and bats it away.
But I remove the dead thing,
and with a great swing
I toss it out with the trash,
and my calm I regain in a flash.

Victoria invites us to try our hand at humor (oh my goodness!) over at dVerse Poets pub at 3PM EST:

Ghouls’ Repast

Bing Photos: Public Domain

Bing Photos: Public Domain

Midnight strikes,
a light breeze kicks up
twirling fallen leaves,
one rests upon a crypt.
Thin slice of moonlight
pierces the trees,
alighting on the vault.
Scratching can be heard,
insistent and frantic,
heavy lid now cracked,
life and death are blurred.
Bony fingers grip the edge,
a moan escapes the tomb,
remembering the sledge
that drove the nail within.
A hundred years have
passed and it’s time to
rise again on All Hallows’
Eve, a night for ghouls’
repast. Phantoms come
forth from the cemetery
plots, screaming with
howls as their party begins
with earnest. Deep shadows
surround the assembly and
the hedge begins to rustle;
tiny goblins soon appear
with sharp and wicked teeth.
All grab hands and begin
their spinning game, ‘round
and ‘round, faster and faster,
cackling with glee. The wee
hours pass and the merriment
continues as long as the moon
remains high. Just before dawn
breaks, before even the sun peeks,
one by one they begin to
depart, returning once again
to their final resting place.

Join us at dVerse Poets where Toni asks us to write on a topic of Halloween and to share some of our favorite scary movies and books.

Plaiting Her Hair

Plaiting her hair at the end of each day
a soothing ritual she likes to play.
The smoothness of her hair like silk
is twined by fingers the color of milk.
A flower she sometimes weaves so gay

Absentmindedly brushing aside a stray
Her mind is distracted with thoughts she weighs
so she clears her wits from this type of ilk,
Plaiting her hair

Her life is fair in her grand chalet,
passing time with the art of crochet,
and wearing the most luxurious silk,
yet stifled she feels and ready to bilk.
Sometimes it’s hard to hide her dismay,
Plaiting her hair

Join us today at dVerse Poets where I’m hosting Open Link Night:

Life Carvings on the Rocks

Photo by Bjorn Rudberg

Photo by Bjorn Rudberg

Can you hear our war
cry as we went into
battle that day?
Those cries too are
wedged into the cracks
and crevices of the
rocks that surrounded
our homes and dotted
the beaches nearby.
We watch from the trees
and peer over your
shoulders as you
examine our carvings.
We are amused at
the meanings that you
interpret out of our
simple figure drawings.
You speak of mythology
and religions that we may
or may not have practiced.
Is it not clear?
Can you not see?
We fished and hunted,
warred and protected.
We had fine boats that
served us well.
We loved and had families
who needed to eat, stay
warmed or clothed.
We used the fertile land
that we settled and
cultivated. We died
and were born. Some
liked to depict our lives
on these stones and rocks.
One day I saw one of
you dig up my bronze ax
that I always carried with me.
We were a strong clan.
Is it not clear?
Can you not see?

Bjorn Rudberg shares photos of rock carvings and asks us to share a sense of what they are telling us.  Meet us over at dVerse Poets.

Golden Rain: A Tree of Memories

Moonlight filtered through the gauzy curtains.
I knew the Golden Rain tree was just outside.
Memories washed over me,
climbing its branches, looking down from above.
I knew the Golden Rain tree was just outside.
How I love that tree, though now grown old,
bent with age, losing limbs.
Memories washed over me.
Remembering the cookouts, the laughter,
hearing its leaves rustle with an autumn breeze.
Climbing its branches, looking down from above,
I see Dad’s chair, vacant now,
some day the tree and I will join him.

Please join us as Mary instructs us on the Trimeric form today for dVerse Poets, Minding the Bar.

The River

I sit in silence by the shore of the river.
All my years of formal education pale
in comparison to the wisdom shared
by the simple lessons offered here.

The river flows downstream, never
against herself, there is no struggle.
Though there be large boulders and
clumps of weeds, she moves around
them with ease and leaves them be.

The riverbank supports the river,
her edges contain the waters that
rush by, sometimes a trickle, other
times raging rapids, but she remains
steadfast, ever composed and calm.

The river is alive.  Her life force is
vibrant and energetic.  The prana that
she emits is felt by all who approach,
they are immediately refreshed and
renewed by her golden aura.

All animals that need to drink from
her waters are treated equally, none
are turned away.  They are served
with unvarying harmony and humility.

She provides homes and haven to the
myriad fish, frogs, turtles, snakes that
rely on her for their sustenance.  And too
the land animals and birds look to her for
the life-giving fluid and foods that they
fish from her bountiful waters.

A current of power flows along with
her waters.  It builds within itself
and bathes all who draw near with
invigorating showers of illumination.
If she ebbs or flows
it makes no difference.
She is here to give.

It is Abhra’s birthday today and he shared a beautiful poem by Rabindranath Tagore with us and asks what gift would we like to share:

At Sherry Blue Sky’s suggestion, I’m also linking this to Poets United for their prompt on teaching or teachers:

Haibun Monday 2


My mind drifts in and out and flows around and about, switching directions on a whim, back to childhood, in between and then up to the present again. This play moves my emotions with it as if on a roller coaster ride. The sting of a hurt feeling from decades ago can be recreated through a memory that becomes dislodged by the smell of the apple pie that is cooking in my kitchen today. The contented joy I felt while mothering my newborns is a love-filled, treasured memory. Instantly I feel at calm ease when I reflect upon that time. But even this memory takes me from present time; it too a phantom.

Memories are powerful imprints within us. They can evoke times of joy, love, closeness, warmth, smiles or fear, panic, sorrow, regret and shame. To dwell on painful memories can hold us tight to the past and rob us of our life in the present. And interspersed with all those memories are the daydreams of my imaginings…both are fleeting wisps, gone with tomorrow.

echoes of the past
ghostly mirages at play
today let me live

Today is Haibun Monday at dVerse Poets. Bjorn and Hamish invite us to pick one of two quotes from Khalil Gibran that they have provided and write a haibun. The details are here:

Peeping Tom

One night as I silently watched you through
the window that was open to the night air,
you gave no sign that you knew I was there.

Your pretty innocence excited me even
though you were only reading a book.
It became a compulsion to watch you

or one of your sisters. However, I had to
be extra careful around your older brother
and not alert him to what was going on.

Once there were a couple of your girlfriends
along with all of you four sisters in your
bedroom and I made the mistake of showing

my face at the window. The screaming that
erupted made me tear out of there like my
life depended on it. I had never run so fast before.

I laid low for a few days but soon showed up again.
It became a compulsion to watch you.
I also had another compulsion and I acted it out

one fateful night when I donned a bra and panties
and crept up on that window to that room where
you liked to read. What I didn’t know, and you

were so cool about it, was that you had heard
my step falls on the crisp, autumn leaves
and had gone and told your brother and his

friend out in the living room that someone was
outside the window. I was caught that night,
embarrassed, threatened with great bodily harm

if I showed up there again. Maybe that night was
a turning point for me, I needed help for my
compulsion to watch you.

Kelly invites us to write from the view of the opposite sex over at dVerse Poets:

Concrete Gray

Photo: Google Images Public Domain

Concrete gray becomes their hair
Sidewalk cracks too much to bear

Melding, blending with their position
No glance their way gives recognition

A man downtrodden, sad, consumed
Has no shelter within this tomb

Others care, some don’t have time
To tend a hand covered in grime

Human beings reduced to this
A land of plenty became an abyss

Once okay and doing fine
One tripping slip they crossed the line

Whole families now are on the streets
Life’s shifting changes kicked their teeth

Now invisible, we don’t care
Concrete gray became their hair

I’m linking this to the 100TPC Event at Into the Bardo/Beguine Again with Jamie Dedes.  Come join us!:

A Life Can Raise Up

You don’t know me,
but we’re connected you see
and not because I live
close by or down the street.
We’re bound together,
because we’re both
human beings.

I share the same needs
and desire to live safely,
have food, and clothing
and my family in shelter.
I want medicine when I’m sick
and the best possible care for my
children and loved ones,
because we’re both
human beings.

I live in Sierra Leone, Niger
and Syria, Zimbabwe,
Ethiopia and Haiti,
Rwanda, Uganda, Mali
Congo and Somalia
and many other
places far and wide.
And even though there are
oceans between us,
makes no difference,
because we’re both
human beings.

Put judgments aside, (look
straight into my eyes), don’t
intellectualize and rationalize
all the differences you surmise
and reasons you construe
that I’ve failed somehow
so you can lay blame for
these conditions in which I live.
But you know better than that,
because you’re a
human being.

If I put out my hand
and gave you my name,
would our acquaintance
seem more real and
personal that way?
Could you then understand
that we’re so much alike?
That my heart feels the agony
of my treacherous life and to
watch my children suffer
gives me unimaginable pain,
I feel just like you,
I’m a fellow
human being.

But if you should think that
I’m just too far away and
you really feel stuck that
I’m down on my luck, then
look around your town for
a needy citizen nearby.
Reach out your hand
and give him respect,
spend time and listen, fill
an empty gap, we all have
these stories of how life has hurt
but with caring attention
a life can raise up,
because we’re
all human beings.

Today Bjorn is hosting Open Link Night at dVerse Poets and inviting us to add a poem of our choice:

This was previously linked at  Jamie Dede’s Into the Bardo/Beguine Again site for the event of 100TPC 2015 (100 Thousand Poets for Change) last weekend where the topic was poverty and hunger.

Presentation for dVerse Poets: Japanese Death Poems

Today I’m presenting Japanese Death Poems at dVerse Poets for Meeting the Bar, please join us:

Matsuo Basho

Matsuo Basho


Basho's death poem

Wikipedia:  Matsuo Bashō, 1644-1694, was the most famous poet of the Edo period in Japan. During his lifetime, Bashō was recognized for his works in the collaborative haikai no renga form; today, after centuries of commentary, he is recognized as the greatest master of haiku.


Clouds silhouetted
against setting sun’s waning
winter’s sleep is near
Singing temple bell
encircles the valley’s pond
resting place awaits
No need for despair
this shell has aged and withered
morning breaks again
celebrate my renewal
freedom is mine, farewell all!
Howling, sickly wolf
moonless path ends abruptly
heart heavy, cries die
I had a nice drive
the journey was full and wide
the outing complete
Cherry blossoms drift
on the breeze scattering far
and near, I gather
memories to take with me,
hands grasp only emptiness
Wide awake I’ve been
for what seems like just a blink
slumber beckons now
Long, drawn-out journey
sharp mind in a withered shell
window framed my world
slowly now, life is ebbing
my path worn down by my dreams
Coming and going
are inconsequential and
meaningless yet we
celebrate the one and mourn
the other, pure balderdash!
Mountain’s pinnacle
will soon be summitted, the
loon’s call through the mist
guides me to the unseen peak,
only a few more paces


It was that hazy time of day when it’s just beginning to darken but there’s still plenty of light to see where you’re going. And I was heading out. The interstate was just about the only way out now that wasn’t standing under water.

The last heavy rain had flooded the town for one last time for me. Most everyone had already gone anyway. Our small town had been steadily declining for years. The young folk had moved elsewhere to find jobs and start families. There were just a few of us “oldtimers” left and now there was one less.

PHOTO PROMPT © The Reclining Gentleman

Photo Credit:  The Reclining Gentleman

Join us at Flash Fictioneer Friday with Rochelle Wisoff-Fields and write a story in 100 words:

Day Cries Gray

Tied in knots, fear grips unyielding,
Hazed future shut down my singing.
Profusion of tears leaves me peeved,
The day cries gray, my heart does grieve.

Stunned anxiety maintains me fixed,
Movement forward seems now transfixed.
Instead of light, my world’s bereaved,
The day cries gray, my heart does grieve.

All is pale, neutral, muted, dark,
My vision heavy, listless, stark.
Where is salvation? I am cleaved!
The day cries gray, my heart does grieve.


I tried another kyrielle today for Open Link Night at dVerse Poets hosted by Abhra.  Join us!

Mira Jaya Ji

20150729_164754_resized (1)

Photo by Gayle Walters Rose:  Mira Jaya Rose-Hutner

Who would have thought
with one child’s birth
such transformation
within my heart.
No hesitation
on my part
to uproot my life
and join your side.
Witnessing your
change and growth
has brought great
expansion of my own.
A guru in an infant’s
form has shone
the light where
it had dimmed.

You’ve bowed to me
and touched my feet.
With common ground
we’ve made a link.

I pay attention
to what you teach,
no matter if
you’re only three.  

Now delight
is often near,
your joyous smile
brings sweet cheer.

These last few years
I won’t forget,
your entrance here
made my top-ten list.

Toni, aka Kanzen Sakura, asks us to offer something up along the lines of change over at dVerse Poets:

Storm and Frog

Roused from sleep by the house rattling with thunder, my body aches with pain, more sore than restored. A tempest rages outside with squalling, storm bands flooding and high winds whipping at the trees; stormy weather sometimes has this affect on my body. I want to go back to sleep but a green tree frog who has wedged himself in my window jamb is delighted for the soggy morning and calls out to the surrounding community with a loud but low-pitched, repetitive croak. His song is answered with a chorus and now it seems a glee club is resounding throughout my room.

fully awakened
nature’s voice has my attention
window frames my day

The first Haibun Monday is being presented at dVerse Poets:

Japanese Death Poems

In the death poem (jisei), the essential idea was that at one’s final moment of life, one’s reflection on death (one’s own usually but also death in general) could be especially lucid and meaningful and therefore also constituted an important observation about life. The poem was considered a gift to one’s loved ones, students, and friends. The tradition began with zen monks, but was also popular with poets, whose poems were often just as solemn as those of monks, or entirely flippant and humorous. The poems are often full of symbols of death, such as the full moon, the western sky, the song of the cuckoo, and images of the season in which the writer died.

The following are a collection of my own Japanese Death Poems (no I’m not nearing death…just playing):


This world has gone dark
With one foot in the next
I see light, peace…your face.


Dark clouds obscure the moon,
beating of my heart slows,
the open window beckons.


Stark, cold branches
silhouetted against the moon
point in all directions;
choosing my next path, I depart.


Torrential river’s rush,
now a dwindling,
drying rivulet.


Love, we still have love!
It remains constant
unlike this temporal body.


Whippoorwill’s call
at evening’s nigh…life
lifts gently from my
form before dawn.


Why, death is nothing!
It’s like walking from
one room to another.


More there than here,
a sudden burst of energy
hurls you into the beyond,
much like birth.


The hiker
moves swiftly
over rocky terrain,
boulders, mountains,
but one slip and the very
ground he depended
on meets him head-on
and he’s gone.


I looked around
and noticed people
aging and dying.
The belief was so
strongly embedded
that I followed suit.


Summer’s heat rising
from the pavement…
has no effect on my chilling form.


The lifeless state mirrors the deathless,
all is one continuous thread
weaving throughout lifetimes of infinity.


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