every song, every line scrawled,
of poetry and of prose,
rasps at this open wound,
and calls back your absence,
like a disturbed spirit summoned,
to possess old familiar haunts,
these scrapes and slashes teach,
my senses what is refined,
and show that I’ve lost,
that which was never mine,
nine tenths of the law,
were to another already licensed
then need we flagellate so,
need we be...
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