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Jul 8
His gentle fingertips brush it
But instead of tranquility
It was tartness
Through the vines that bolted from her tomb
He let it droop,
a necklace.
Its gold was the glistening morning light
Its voice cold as the gold he wore

Her wrinkled hands trickle cold
Pressing on the shimmery gold
She passes over what once was hers

The gold became the blazing sun
Deep inside, broken memories reside

It comes from an aching owner
Wrapped around his neck,
Roaring

             Voices

Reverberate.

Yet, yearning for comfort, it is there.
Omar Limias
Written by
Omar Limias  19/M/Chicago
(19/M/Chicago)   
40
   BR Dragos and Fawn
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