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Aug 2019
windows rattled
on edge,
huddling against our cinder blanket,
it was on the frame that we etched out,
prematurely, our obituaries
tilting in a tempest;
the world shattered away
with some painter going off to mourn
his shards
slicing the cliff of your cheek,
dripping like the earth’s wine
Written by
arbor  M/the milky way
(M/the milky way)   
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