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Oct 2016
I think of simple things
of the spirit, the last rites
we all know as lovers
who go to bed having a child
in mind, waking when it is over,
and if I forget my vagueness
while describing the rose
and happen to bring it to ruin,
I will not cling like a vine
or be a burden like a stone,
a crow on the horizon,
nor the calligraphy of seed
carved by the knife of my need,
I will not sing a sad song
to that son for whom I bleed.
Written by
Woody  In the dark woods.
(In the dark woods.)   
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