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Mari May 4
A fleeting fantasy,
an outburst of love
radiant as Greek myth.
To wake from the haze of sleep
is no simple thing.
My butterfly has flown away.
Mari May 4
Stones splattered with mud,
the night cold upon the earth,
barefoot, I walk on muddy, cold stones
I miss the scent of your perfume,
whose fragrance drives me
to bleed myself out.

— The End —