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  Mar 2018 liz
Onoma
gentled away where
sound's
called  forth from a
heap of black stones.
taste bittered to sweetness
in un-name.
mouthing.
late sight blasted red,
in the passion of its
rose.
it cannot be, yet is--
ash peppered finely
as space unto a toppling
sky.
all in all hail, gone to gone--
forever's betrothal cycle.
holding peace.

— The End —