a gathered fear
bows beneath that timid moon,
a poppy humbled in scattered
hopes
and idle-day dreams
that someday shall come
by the endless of tomorrow,
to witness the dirt
as it bleeds from her eyes
by morning-
to banish
that terrible reflex
born of hurt,
both garnered and graced;
to strike silver
bells beneath this tide,
set fly a prayer
withheld,
that all things
may, in their mystery of days,
be resurrected lightly.
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