And in the well-worn ache
of turning mourning,
there are no more tears-
for all is beauty-lathed
misery, held unswathed,
without fearing to uptake
hope's new sculpted shape.
A changeling exchanged
while flailing naked
in it's abyssal state.
And wholeness excises, to demean
only fruitless shoots, now seen
to sow what has no further meaning.
And in the ague
of restless morning's
fitful, nude, new break
from dim, unsculptured yaw-
fretful feet...
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