“Deep beneath the waves, white-winged birds of May Run from hollow hills, walk into the night.”
Her pale face is voided antiquity, a paper-thin line fallen fresh from flowery fallacy to hardwood floor, coiled cold & blue in landing; words, like little droplets of April rain, a distant deluge of drought parsing orange Hemerocallis petals trenching around her. To see it unfold. Bent at the altar, Spring’s forgotten daughter can’t.
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