without a sound
from the stonefaced crowd
steering 'round the cenotaph.
More woman than child
and less child than that
weathered avatar.
Where undirected tides go,
beneath a hungry moon,
from a soil dewed in tears,
flowers bloom of rot
in delightful creation.
Imperfect angel descent
from the stars gazing back,
we come together
and I shudder to think
I'd choke on a mouthful
of your innocence.
Human dirt still tastes sweet,
like the growing pains
of a world suspended
in the instant of our lives.
An alchemical balance frame,
which way do we go from here,
maybe the rising will tell.
Purge.
Repeat.
in our insignificance we extract importance and it goes to show it went before we lost it.
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