dechue

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I am … a withered leaf - the breath of your indifference, tossing - like every other … we sit on sand shoulders pressed like sinners yet from the chill, not familiarity … this place, once solemn - once our vessel has long since betrayed us its moon, beams no magic the breaks, sing not tarnished doubloons rust the wave tops and the tree of love I have wilted from, aches in vain to see you look at me the way you gaze … upon the sea. Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, January 29, 2024

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