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Mar 2017
I was slow
at knowing
that the times
we can bat
our eyelids
are not infinite
and I remember
quite well
the way that I felt
on the day
that my brother
passed on
there was a mirage
of sound
late one evening
when the blind
eye of the moon
welled up
as I laced my boots
with sinew
and walked through
the darkness
to let the stars shine
on the blade
of my knife that cut
deep along
my lifeline
and the blood
from my palms
read like
the Psalms
of comfort that could
not find its way
through the hay
of the high
pasture
on that long night
not so
very long ago.
Woody
Written by
Woody  In the dark woods.
(In the dark woods.)   
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