Writing in a room with an insolent ceiling,
Haughty in its skill at keeping thoughts out of reach,
Emotions darted above me, bat-like in their evasion,
A rapture of denial, pushing me away.
Ever I spun toward memory - always a quarter-turn ahead;
The seasons hid their faces, the Heavens turned their back,
Inspiration's cache stood just offshore, vanishing in fog;
What...
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