Constance La France's Echo, Enduring, Empty Contest...13 Jun 2025
New moon vanishes into a blush of russet where humid air twirls along with clouds, and stars burst… flickering above hilltops to cast my anguish across the sky: How wanton gulls crisscross on a flight; their shrill rattling an echo that my heart pales from an image of first passion’s gaieties outlined by his maze of treachery, of ruse : Forgetting not my lesions from one August night, tears split forth in torment without measure: Naïve at eighteen then, I drank yesteryear’s pain hoping fate could heal me from such drilling spin... then to wake up fed with grace to echo new morn's canticle of beginnings 1st place.
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