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Among the flowers where you were told to wait, and listen to the wind.
The sum of it's parts is always late, but what it brings,
A friend at timid pace,
A friend who knows the place,
A friend to plant the flowers,

You knew while you still wait.
If gods don't bleed then I know for sure that I am man.
I know just as well how to stitch above that alleged red, so that what you think you've seen;
I will remain immortal, towering over kings.
There are stories beneath those eyes.

Decadent cliffs before pools of spoken word to be cast into.

Between man's hope for calculated risk, and his knowing of coming sorrow, a delicate cusp where two eyelashes meet is accounted for as the wonderful pen it is to draw such sight.

A stare bathes your skin as a kiss from fullest lips. Dampening your nape, deepening your stomach, and quickening your heart.

A task begins to slow your breathing.

If a field of men were before such a cast, quickly they would lay, as battle has already been won. One bow pulled from the sturdiest of spines by the simple touch of where her mind might be,

Here's to you, looking upon me.
Gonna keep ******* with this one.
To the friends we've lost to insecurity,
To the bodies buried in the cemetery,
Of company,
And their misery.
And these anchors may prove more than your shores can bury.

The shipping lanes all close,
And a storm takes on the sea.
Flare guns fire only smoke,
We don't count on a morning's coming,
With cloud cover so thick,
When asked if the morning's close,
The answer is only ever,
Almost.
Maybe it's enough to dance by yourself near the sea.
They say when you love someone else,
It's simply reflecting your being,
And here you dance with me.

In solitude I find you,
And in loneliness seek,
Fewer rainy days where rocks are thrown at the sea.
But there are too many stones underneath,
Which keep you from me.
Too many cuts on these hands,
To hold yours in the deep.

Though I try,

To shift while you shift.
Reflect how you reflect,
Miss what you miss,
By the moon's light.
The wound of loneliness.
Not to be talked upon now.
And isn't that exactly it,
A quiet voice disregarded for bigger ideas,
And bigger people.
He hasn't felt the warmth of another's breath in too long. Many nights are spent with only his air painting clouds beneath his lips. Bathed in the cold dark, the cabin flinches by every ask of the wind, it's floorboards creek under pressuring steps, and yet his body only shivers from it's isolation. Untentative ripples, pure in their commitment to the fall of sensibility and control; never to have those windows repaned again. See now how the guests of wind tear at the neighboring cloth on his body. Colder colder, and ever more lonesome. Here he sits with no hammer, no nail, lamenting and moaning, expecting a ship in the woods to come and set sail with the morning.
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