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Nov 2020
A phantom edges to the precipice.
Every forgotten word upon his lips.
A singular scar graces his spirit.
A shade of grey painted across his brow.
The winter wind chills to his bitter bones.
The fog descends upon his stubbled chin.
He takes a breath, and a solemn swan-dive,
until he greets his dearest friend, the ground.
Softly tasting the view from halfway down.
7 cycles of the moon remain.
Shin
Written by
Shin  30/M/Chicago
(30/M/Chicago)   
  109
     Kiana G and Martin Bond
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