There is a ladder of stones and moss
salt from the terrace of balcony closed
glimmers of white threads of old flood
greed any day
no history without waiting
you turn around
ruined peach bark advanced
fed burr heavenly
were a sapling
like her delicate body of petals and powerful trunk
but were balanced between the stones crumbling
tired feet weary smiles
yet were there
silent presence
to accompany my whispers
it was nice to hear your hat on breast
while looking expanse of grass and flowers of dandelion
kites out of place between the fingers.
I was embraced time
last rose of the prairie
And you run a shadow of a weeping
suddenly
meat suit .
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