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Dec 2016
Breath is never
baited, its sea has
already parted.
In its place a mountain
stands, a man lain across
its peak.
There exposed, what bone
may box a breast,Β Β O dear Mother--
never off kilter.
Therefrom a thread so gold, marrow
met skin, up and away...
a steady pull by the tail end
of an angel.
Relative as the bent forefront of love's law,
where all reunion leaves no remnant.
To find a faith so becoming, space leaves
room for space verging on itself.
How blue the pearl, how circular
the sky of its golden grows
the thread that breaks with every breath.
Written by
Onoma  (N)ow(Y)ou(C)an
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