If only I could stop the marching hoursfrom severing our yoke,this dream would be circularand filled with the bounty of our earth. You say that I ground you. No grindingof teeth between us. We’re comradesin this battle for contentmentbefore our soul sets sail to its firmament. In this December winter, the full silvermoon glows faintly through gappedblinds and powders one side of your faceWith a thin luminous layer. As the hours march on, my heart uttersa quiet cry, refusing to …
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