Losing
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Our hearts like hammers tripping
into silent sunbeams slipping,
we moved, my team and I,
into time’s immortal gripping.
mourning the quiet passing throngs,
wafting in the wordless void.
No inspiration given,
wrapped within precision’s ribbon,
leaving paper cuts so thin
to bleed our daily loss out loud.
homeward bound, so slowly,
with our heads reluctant bowed.
Copyright © Vernon Witmer | Year Posted 2020
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