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Memories exhumed like creeping camisados
are out here stalking once more. A cacophonous attack
of unsuccessful repression, screaming
of the foregone,
of the degredations you spat from profane pulpit,
and of my tongue, jarred, a malign antiquity.
And of what you left, burning from inside, that was
to emerge, in time, from what you liked best about me.
A fruit blossom blooming; a rose potted in ****-
I put that out after thirty-nine moons.
Tip toeing towards tremendous plains,
a few times tripped, but never tumbled.
The cacophony’s eurythmic now, now
that I recall where the screaming first stopped.
A blossom, a rose (or something greater)
given to me to put things right.
My black turning blue, improved and renewed,
a parturition extinguished through love.
And now I bloom, faintly, in the shade of you.
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