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soft quiet nights, slowly dimming lights and darker days while the right wing of a beautiful white owl clipped my brow leaving a touch that felt a lonely white feather drop before it was caught by the wings of wind.
On it went until the dark of the night took it away from my sight leaving it free to go where ever the winds decided that lonely feather would finally drift down and never fly again.
Not easy to state the change you made.
If I'm alive now, then I was dead,
Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,
Staying put according to habit.
You didn't just tow me an inch, no--
Nor leave me to set my small bald eye
Skyward again, without hope, of course,
Of apprehending blueness, or stars.

That wasn't it. I slept, say: a snake
Masked among black rocks as a black rock
In the white hiatus of winter--
Like my neighbors, taking no pleasure
In the million perfectly-chisled
Cheeks alighting each moment to melt
My cheeks of basalt. They turned to tears,
Angels weeping over dull natures,
But didn't convince me. Those tears froze.
Each dead head had a visor of ice.

And I slept on like a bent finger.
The first thing I was was sheer air
And the locked drops rising in dew
Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay
Dense and expressionless round about.
I didn't know what to make of it.
I shone, mice-scaled, and unfolded
To pour myself out like a fluid
Among bird feet and the stems of plants.
I wasn't fooled. I knew you at once.

Tree and stone glittered, without shadows.
My finger-length grew lucent as glass.
I started to bud like a March twig:
An arm and a leg, and arm, a leg.
From stone to cloud, so I ascended.
Now I resemble a sort of god
Floating through the air in my soul-shift
Pure as a pane of ice. It's a gift.

Some of them were strangers

Some of them were without any rule

None of them would see another tomorrow

And if the innocent are guilty

Of the crimes they are harboring within

Then what are the chances in the hands of the convicted

There in the tiredness of what resignation brings

In the rejection of your everything

When the dawn draws close with no exceptions

Some of them were crying

Some of them stood brave

In the end it just didn't matter . . .

All of their dreams came tumbling down

All of their love soon would expire

And the void in the midst of the distance left not a sound

As the earth swallowed all that mattered

It covered all of their future faults

Leaving the fresh dirt of new direction

Some of them were young

Some of them were old

Some of them were men and the others were women

Sone of them were just in the wrong location

Maybe they had the wrong face of denial

Just maybe in memory they will not be forgotten

For being guilty of being innocent
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